


DIY Messiah

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry stopped hating Draco Malfoy on Bring Your Kids to Work Day.</p><p>Originally written for HD Worldcup (Team Epilogue) in May 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DIY Messiah

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas (from livejournal): jehnt, cindala, obfuscate3 and confusedkayt.

  
Harry stopped hating Draco Malfoy on Bring Your Kids to Work Day.  
  
Harry and Malfoy had only been sharing the same workplace for a year when the specially coded memo—a lilac bird with a blood-red trim—wound its way to Harry's cubicle, borne on the breath of a thousand sighs.  
  
Up till then, Harry had no contact with the Department of Accounts and Boring Paperwork. He didn't even realise the Head of ABP _was_ Draco Malfoy. He knew him only by his nickname, which was—handily enough—also ABP. It stood for A Bit Pissed, which is what happened to the Head of ABP when his fellow Ministry workers didn't get the 'Quills and Misc Stationary' requisition forms in on time.  
  
Harry had no idea what Misc Stationary was. As Ginny regularly bought him quills for birthdays and Christmas, he never had any occasion to find out. He also remained blissfully unaware of the festering hatred that existed in all Ministry strata for Bring Your Kids to Work Day.  
  
Harry opened the memo with all the fervour of the deeply bored, noting that the special trim stained his hands. After reading it over and ruminating for a while—it did no good to rush things; there were only so many times you could count your teeth with your tongue, or spellcheck a single report—he fire-called Ginny.  
  
Kneeling down on the floor to reach a fire was vastly detrimental to the sanctity of the spine (Harry should know), but laying his cheek against a desk wasn't much better. Still, a new-fangled Face Floo was not something to be sneezed at—although Harry did, regularly.  
  
There was no dallying on the switch-furnace, but the call blazed for a long time before anyone answered. Harry felt his face heating unpleasantly.  
  
He was just about to abandon the attempt when a young, female voice—apparently attempting to be an old, male and possibly sub-human voice—said thoughtfully: "Hellooooo?"  
  
"Lily? What have I told you about answering the Floo?" scolded Harry. Without waiting for an answer, he said, "Put Mummy on the fire."  
  
There was a burst of static as Lily crawled out of the fireplace, kicking up ashes as she went, and bellowed for 'GINNY!'  
  
Harry glanced around the kitchen as he waited for his wife to arrive. Washing was piled high on the unscrubbed table, wrinkling as it dried. On the edge of his fire-vision, he could see the sink, filled to the brim with scummy soap-suds. A teetering stack of dishes, sticky with food, looked every minute more ready to bungee-jump from the drainer into the water.  
  
A patter of feet interrupted Harry's inspection. Ginny hove into sight. Her ratty dressing-gown and dirty slippers were an odd contrast to the dark slash of lipstick across her full mouth, the diamante pins shining through her curls. Although Harry couldn't help but smile at his beautiful, slapdash wife, he felt an answering surge of irritation at the fact that she still wasn't dressed at half-past twelve in the afternoon.  
  
"What do you want?" was her gasped-out greeting. "Make it quick, eh, I've got to get Lily to day school."  
  
"Oh, right." Confronted by this demand, Harry suddenly fumbled for words. Ginny crouched in front of the fire, resting on one hand to balance herself. Even her straining white knuckles seemed to convey her impatience. "It's just about this memo I got. Bring Your Kids to Work Day."  
  
"Yes, and?"  
  
"Well, I was thinking of bringing Albus Severus and Lily."  
  
"Sounds like a great idea," said Ginny briskly. "Do you want to tell them or shall I?"  
  
"I will, after work. Ask them, I mean, not tell them. They don't have to go—"  
  
"Oh, please. They'll jump at the chance. Even if they don't, I'll make them. Stick a wand up their bums or something."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous. I want them to have a fun day. That's the whole point."  
  
"Really? Well, I'm sure you're right, love. I was only having a laugh."  
  
"Ha," said Harry obediently. Ginny lifted her body into a runner's crouch.  
  
"Was there anything else? Because I really am dead late."  
  
"No, no," said Harry. "That's all."  
  
"See you at dinner. Chicken casserole all right?" And she was gone before Harry could reply, leaving his ears ringing with Lily's last primal scream of 'GINNY'.  
  
Harry didn't like chicken. He didn't hate it, either, but he could have done without eating it for two weeks in a row. Of course, it was the _only_ thing Lily would eat right now—and Ginny's forte was fowl—and according to her chicken was the easiest thing to cook. Harry wouldn't know. He only ever made breakfast on Saturdays.  
  
With a sigh he refused to acknowledge, he turned back to his report. A fourth fact-checking never did anyone any harm.  
  
+++  
  
Harry always found Friday evenings exhausting. The kids were hyper as hell: running around like miniature tornadoes, screaming on an endless loop. The only time Harry had run as a child was away from Dudley, but he knew that was abnormal. Still, the flashing circuits Albus Severus and Lily made of the house in celebration of the weekend weren't exactly normal either. At least James wasn't currently around to enable them, being in semi-permanent residence at Fred Weasley's house.  
  
When Harry stepped out of the fire, he almost tripped over his daughter. This didn't daunt her in the slightest; she merely weaved around a tumbled chair and careened into the garden. Her whoops were truly spine-chilling.  
  
The kitchen was in much the same state as Harry had last seen it, perhaps a tad messier. A new batch of Lily's paint-daubs held pride of place on the refrigerator, held on by another magnet made by the slightly more skilled Albus Severus.  
  
Harry could admit to himself—though he did so rarely, of late—that he'd expected more out of having his own family. He thought that enough love, enough _wanting_ on his part would make up for anything.  
  
The love wasn't lacking, but the anything certainly was.  
  
He pictured his children in Hogwarts easily enough: sleeping in the circular rooms of Gryffindor Tower, eating treacle tart in the Great Hall, being as amazed by what magic could do as he had been at eleven.  
  
 _Now_ , it was difficult to imagine his children doing anything so peaceful as sleep, or consuming anything so normal as treacle tart. For three years James would eat nothing that wasn't green. As he refused all vegetables point blank, Ginny had to resort to liberally sprinkling everything she cooked with food colouring. Albus Severus had become a vegetarian at five. Lily, with such sterling examples to live up to, went through a new fad every week. And as for their being amazed by magic—well, it was all Harry could do to keep his wand in his pocket when they were around. By seven they'd all known more hexes than Harry had learned during his entire stay at Hogwarts, and used most of them on each other.  
  
In his ignorance about wizarding customs, Harry had imagined that the children of all magical families were home-schooled. He'd fostered a charming little image: coming home after a day's work to find Ginny and the children grouped around the fire. Their little faces shining as he dropped his briefcase (which he'd decided would probably hold his lunch) and said, 'I'm home!' Their eagerness to show him what they'd learned that day.  
  
Granted, this image had faded pretty smartly as soon as his children actually had faces. For a very long time, it had been courting danger to let Lily or James anywhere near an unattended fire. Harry sometimes thought Albus Severus became his favourite child simply because he'd shown no tendency to develop pyromania.  
  
Harry righted the over-turned chair and flicked a spell at the laundry. It became airborne and started jerkily folding itself. His next target was the stagnant water in the sink, which with a wave of his wand turned bright and sparkling. Into this the dishes leapt with a will.  
  
Making a note to check on his spells later—the annoying thing about household magic was that it needed constant supervision—Harry went in search of his wife. He found her relaxing in the sitting room, glued to a Wizarding Network programme about emperor penguins. Her hair was still swept up in spangles, but the lipstick had long since faded.  
  
"Hi." Harry dropped a perfunctory kiss on the top of her head, which she acknowledged with a wave of her wine glass. Drops sloshed on to the carpet. Harry Vanished them.  
  
"This is _so_ sweet," said Ginny. "Look at the little chicks! Aren't they darling?"  
  
They looked like regurgitated furballs. "Hmm."  
  
"Do you want a drink, love? There's wine in the fridge."  
  
"I don't like red," Harry reminded her.  
  
"Beer, then?"  
  
"Is there any? I drank the last can yesterday."  
  
"Oh, and I forgot to buy more today." Friday was grocery day: an apparently exhausting task, if Ginny's reaction to it was anything to go by.  
  
"Damn it, why not? You know I go through a six-pack a week."  
  
Ginny shrugged. "It wasn't on the list. I told you to write stuff on the list. I forget otherwise."  
  
"I haven't got time to write down every damn thing on the list! I'm too busy."  
  
"And now you have no beer." Ginny took a sip of wine, spilling more on the sofa cushions. Harry was too irritated to Vanish it.  
  
They sat in tense silence for a while. At least, it felt tense to Harry. Ginny, with her emperor penguins and her wine, gave every evidence of being perfectly at her ease.  
  
Albus Severus came haring into the room. "Mum-mum-mum, can I have a chocolate bar?"  
  
"Sure," said Ginny.  
  
"You'll spoil your dinner," snapped Harry.  
  
"Lily already took one." Albus Severus stuck out his lower lip. Despite being the elder by two years, Albus Severus sometimes seemed a lot younger than his streetwise little sister. "Besides, we had dinner, didn't we, Mum? Mum?"  
  
"That's what I meant to tell you." Ginny dragged her eyes away from the television screen. "I got the kids some takeaway after school. I left a few things in the microwave for you."  
  
"I thought you were making a casserole?"  
  
"It burnt." Ginny flipped her hand at Albus Severus, which he took as tacit consent to go apprehend his desire. "Besides, Lily's now decided she wants nothing but Chinese food. You know Diagon has only one bloody Chinese takeaway? In this day and age? We had to go to Camden in the end."  
  
"Should we be indulging them in these silly whims?" demanded Harry. "They need to learn to eat proper food. Fruit and vegetables. _Porridge_ , for God's sake."  
  
Ginny favoured him with a long, cool look. "I cooked porridge once. Most of it ended up back in my face. If you want them to eat proper food, you make it and feed it to them and stop them from whining down the fire to my mother that you're starving them. Knock yourself out, in fact."  
  
"I'm going to eat," said Harry. He tried to slam the door, but Ginny didn't even leave him that satisfaction. She'd already Muffled the doorframe to stop the kids' noise interrupting her programme.  
  
Harry inspected the cold, stodgy noodles in the microwave. They didn't look appetising now, and Harry harboured grave doubts that they ever had. He unhooked the menu for One Flick Away Pizzas from the hooks where cooking utensils were supposed to hang. In fact, those few that had survived the ravages of the endless cold war between the Potter children were kept under lock and key by Ginny. The hooks now held a startling array of takeaway menus and heating-up instructions.  
  
As Harry knelt by the Floo, his knees creaking under the strain, he reflected that was one good thing about magic. Wizarding takeaways delivered to outlandish places like Godric's Hollow, service guaranteed. And the food was even warm when it arrived.  
  
+++  
  
Harry took an early night and spent most of it tossing and turning, too hot and frustrated to sleep. All the same, he was out before Ginny came to bed. As a consequence, it wasn't until he was making breakfast that he got a chance to tell his children about Bring Your Kids to Work Day.  
  
Saturday morning breakfasts were a family tradition. The Potter children, along with all their Weasley cousins, descended upon the Burrow for the whole day to give their respective parents a break. Harry always made breakfast for his kids before they left.  
  
Afterwards, he took up a tray to Ginny to eat in bed. They usually shared, and usually ended up naked with smears of butter on themselves and on the sheets. Albus Severus and Lily had both been products of Saturday morning breakfasts in bed. In fact, Harry had been rather hopeful that a few more brothers and sisters for James would result from it. It had been a while since he'd hoped that: five, maybe six years.  
  
Harry was up first. He liked to make breakfasts by hand, mainly because that was how he'd learned to do it at the Dursleys'.  
  
He groaned when he realised he'd forgotten to cancel the housework spells before he went to bed. The plates in the sink were slender as paper, the cutlery polished into smooth cylinders. It was a good while before he found the laundry, which had folded up so small that three loads were now the size of a postage stamp.  
  
He managed to unshrink the clothes, which were more wrinkled than ever, but the dishes were a write-off. He wondered why the hell Ginny hadn't over-ridden the spells. She'd probably gone straight from the sitting room to bed, even though she knew she had this squalor to deal with.  
  
Then he spotted the wineglass with lipstick on the rim, planted dead centre on the table. She'd seen the spells and left them to run!  
  
"What the hell?" Harry muttered. It was now the strongest oath he uttered, both he and Ginny having got tired of Lily's 'but _you_ do it's a long time ago.  
  
Harry stacked up the plates, which put together were about the thickness of a pencil, and regarded them sadly. He'd have to go out and buy more, and Ginny would certainly be too annoyed by it to countenance any seduction over her cornflakes and warm milk.  
  
He Summoned some old paper plates from one of the kid's birthday parties and set to work with what knives and forks remained in the drawer. There were yet bowls and saucepans a-plenty, and Harry was soon distracted from his plight by the soothing mechanisms of cracking eggs, mixing pancake batter and frying rashers.  
  
With unerring timing, Albus Severus and Lily thundered down the stairs just as the food was ready to go on the table.  
  
Albus Severus looked askance at the paper plates. "Are these the ones from James' tenth birthday?" he asked.  
  
"I don't know," said Harry. "Why? Does it matter?"  
  
Albus Severus looked at him as if he had three heads. "Of course it does! You bought the non-recyclable kind. I'm not eating off them."  
  
"You can eat off them or off the floor," said Harry. "There's no proper plates left."  
  
"Where'd they go?"  
  
"Away," said Harry. "Now, d'you want pancakes or rashers?"  
  
"What do you think?" Albus Severus grimaced at the frying pan. "Urg, dead animals. _Disgusting._ "  
  
Lily grabbed a rasher from the pan and popped it into her mouth. "Mmm, tasty dead animal," she said, smacking her lips.  
  
"You are a blight on humanity," Albus Severus informed her.  
  
"Lily, sit down at the table and wait like a good girl. Albus Severus, get some glasses and orange juice."  
  
"I don't want orange juice," announced Lily. She crawled under the table to get to her preferred chair—but at least she obeyed. "Orange juice isn't from China."  
  
"Water, then."  
  
Lily shook her head so her coppery curls whipped her face. "I want green tea."  
  
"I don't think we have any green tea."  
  
"Then I shall sit here," said Lily, folding her arms, "and STARVE."  
  
"Can I watch?" asked Albus Severus.  
  
"I'll make you some tea and add green dye to it, will that do?" asked Harry. Lily put her head on one side, considering.  
  
"All right," she assented at last.  
  
Harry congratulated himself for a whole five seconds, until he realised he'd fallen for the exact same trick as Ginny. It was petty to take revenge on an eight year-old, but he put food colouring in the boiling water all the same. Without the tea.  
  
"I have something to tell you," he said, forgetting at the last minute that he'd intended to frame it as a question. "It's Bring Your Kids to Work Day on Monday, and I'd like you two to come."  
  
"You want us to pose as your children?" asked Lily.  
  
"You _are_ my children!"  
  
"Oh, yeah." Lily chewed her hair for a minute. "Okay then, Harry. I'll come."  
  
"Call me Dad."  
  
"But your name is Harry."  
  
"I know my name is Harry. You call me Dad."  
  
"All right, Harry."  
  
Harry bit his lip, wishing he didn't have such a strong desire to clout his daughter around the ear. "What do you think?" he asked Albus Severus.  
  
"The Ministry, you mean? That sounds like fun. Will there be food?"  
  
"There's a canteen, yes. You can have whatever you like."  
  
"Is there a vegetarian option?"  
  
"Yes," sighed Harry, "there's a vegetarian option." Instituted by Under-Secretary to the Minister Hermione Granger, but that was another story.  
  
"Hey, Dad, does this mean we get a day off day school?"  
  
"It sure does."  
  
"You'd better write us a note, then. Mrs Chugworthy needs a note signed by a parent if you're sick or absent for another reason."  
  
"I know," said Harry, who hadn't. "I'll Owl her today."  
  
"Thanks, Dad," said Albus Severus, sounding relieved. Harry got back to finishing breakfast, feeling as tired as if he hadn't slept at all.  
  
Albus Severus ate like a ravenous beast, then sat staring fixedly at Harry and Lily as they made their way together through six rashers and two rounds of toast. Every so often Lily would say, 'Hey, Bussy,' to make Albus Severus look at her—then eat a rasher with her fingers, emitting exaggerated moans of ecstasy. Harry's reprimands were not of one whit's use in preventing her.  
  
Harry hated Albus Severus' nickname. Lily had invented it as a toddler, unable to pronounce the tongue-twisting list of syllables in his given name. 'Bussy' caught on, and spread like a venereal disease among both immediate and extended family.  
  
At this point, Harry was the only person not to call his son Bussy. After a three-hour fight with Ginny about it, one that left both her and Albus Severus in tears, Harry kept quiet on the matter. He still called Albus Severus his proper name whenever he could, in fading hopes of combating the awful popularity of his nickname.  
  
The Floo roared open before they were finished. Hugo Weasley's face, freckled as an egg, popped through the flames. The Granger-Weasleys always arrived at the Burrow first—more because of Hermione's impeccable timekeeping than the sort of reasons that once had Harry hustling his children through the fire.  
  
"Bussy!" roared Hugo, catching sight of his cousin. "You coming through yet? Grampa's going to let us drive the flying car."  
  
"He is not," said Harry.  
  
"Hello, Mr Potter," said Hugo cheerfully. "Hey Lils. Gramma wants to know if Aunt Ginny's finished with her soufflÃ© dish yet."  
  
"I have no idea," said Harry.  
  
"He has no idea!" yelled Hugo backwards. "Well, Gramma says to tell you to tell her to return it as soon as possible, because she's hosting a Daughters of the Great War lunch next Friday. Oh, and she expects Aunt Ginny to be there 'cause she's missed the last three."  
  
"Really?" Harry was surprised. The DGW gatherings used to be the highlight of Ginny's social calendar. He caught sight of his children, shifting impatiently in their chairs. "Go on then," he told them.  
  
Lily dived straight for the fire, getting Hugo in a headlock as she went. Albus Severus managed a 'Bye, Dad' before he followed her.  
  
Harry sat in the quiet kitchen, nostalgic for the days when Albus Severus would cling to his neck and plead with him to stay at home. Back then, Harry had always been conscious of Ginny waiting for him upstairs. He'd insisted it was for Albus Severus' own good that he went and spent time with the rest of his family. Now, Harry wasn't sure why that was.  
  
Harry scraped off the plates and dumped them in the sink, too wary to dare another housekeeping spell. He'd leave that in Ginny's far more capable hands. She was most likely furious about the attempts he'd already made at 'helping.'  
  
He made a bacon butty for her and put it on a red paper plate that said 'TEN TODAY, HOORAY HOORAY.' That was the sort of thing James went in for. His favourite colour was red, and had been ever since he'd decided he was going to be in Gryffindor, apparently in the womb.  
  
Ginny was up and the bed made. Harry quelled a rush of disappointment. His one time-slot was already closed to customers.  
  
"Breakfast?" offered Harry.  
  
Ginny cast a glance at the plate. "That's all right, I'm good."  
  
Harry shrugged and began to eat it himself.  
  
For a Saturday, Ginny was dressed up: a moss-green dress teamed with dark stockings and high heels. She was staring at a number of other dresses and skirts that were thrown across the bed.  
  
"Going somewhere?" asked Harry.  
  
"Yes," said Ginny. "Neville's inaugural dinner. It's tonight, remember?" She took in Harry's blank face. "No, of course you didn't. Good thing I got your dress robes dry-cleaned."  
  
"Oh, no." Harry loved Neville, but he hated frocky soirees.  
  
"Oh, yes." Ginny smoothed down the dress. "What do you think? Does my tummy look flat in this dress?"  
  
"Um." Harry tilted his head sideways. "There's a little bulge across the middle. Maybe you need some of those wonder-pants Hermione always goes on about."  
  
"Gee, thanks," said Ginny, frostily. "The correct answer was in fact 'you look gorgeous, darling.'"  
  
"You do look gorgeous," said Harry, "darling. But that wasn't the question you asked."  
  
"Sometimes, Harry Potter, you are impossible." But she was smiling, so Harry smiled back—hopefully, as she pulled off the dress and stood in her knickers and bra. Black lace, Harry noted, hopes rising.  
  
But when he reached out to grab one of those lovely, soft breasts, Ginny slapped his hand away. "Don't. It's my, you know. Time of the month."  
  
"Oh." Harry scratched his head, disappointed. "Can't we, anyway..."  
  
"I have to figure out what to wear tonight," said Ginny, "or, rather, what still fits. And _then_ I have to have a bath, wash my hair, shave my legs, and go out and buy a gift for Neville, because I presume you forgot that, too." One look at Harry's guilty face confirmed it. "Then I have to settle the kids in with Victoire, who's agreed to babysit for an extortionate sum, and rustle up some food for her and Teddy, who will undoubtedly come along to help her 'study.' So if you're asking can I fit you into my busy schedule, then the answer is no."  
  
"Give us a kiss, at least," said Harry. Ginny took his chin in her hand and swivelled his face to meet her lips. They tasted of lipstick, plasticy.  
  
"Now, you told me again last night how rushed off your feet you are, so—shoo." Ginny was smiling again as she waved him out, but her face was deadly serious.  
  
Harry lingered on the stairs of his own house, wondering what to do. He went around opening the windows in his children's bedrooms, which were all musty and littered with dirty clothing. He sat down in the sitting room for a while and watched a programme on lions—the Wizarding Network seemed to be obsessed with nature.  
  
He supposed he could call Hermione—who was undoubtedly working overtime—or Ron, who was probably out training Junior Quidditch teams. He'd asked Harry to come once, years ago, but the place had been mobbed with autograph hunters, one of whom knocked a kid off their broom. It was still too early to contemplate driving over to the Muggle Homebase to pick up more plates.  
  
Harry thought back to the days when Saturdays seemed too short. Now, every minute felt like an hour.  
  
It was times like these he wished he had a shed.  
  
+++  
  
Harry tugged at his collar for the forty-third time. He'd swear on Dumbledore's grave that the dry cleaners had mixed itching powder into their laundry detergent.  
  
For the twenty-second time, Ginny caught him doing it, and gave him a look that promised fearful retribution when she next got him alone. With an effort Harry removed his hand and bent his ear to the witch beside him.  
  
"- always knew he was destined for great things," she simpered, and Harry realised he was talking to Neville's wife.  
  
It was hard to reconcile Neville—round-faced, solemn, deeply-loved Professor Longbottom, Herbology teacher—with marriage and all its trappings. In fact, till Neville got wed, Harry hadn't realised Hogwarts teachers _could_.  
  
Neville had met the now-Mrs Longbottom at a graduation party. In the years of burgeoning prosperity after the second and final defeat of Voldemort, such things had become commonplace among those who could afford it. Harry was given to understand that up till the early twentieth century, these parties were a traditional way of launching into society witches and wizards of good breeding and marriageable prospects. In one respect, at least, this party had come up trumps.  
  
Miss Drusilla Snodmore was a first-generation witch, as Muggleborns were coming to be known. She had a face like a genial pumpkin and the general appearance of an over-turned ice-cream cone. In fact, most descriptions of her came readily-packaged with food analogies. Drusilla Longbottom was one of nature's gastronomes. She'd been single all her life, until she met Neville, and owned a lot of cats.  
  
"Really?" said Harry. It was one of his stock replies, like 'Yes' and 'Mmm' and 'I see what you mean.' A lot of people were spouting phrases like 'destined for greatness' regarding Neville, even though he'd achieved greatness a long time ago.  
  
"Yes." Drusilla looked at her husband with an expression that would melt polar ice-caps. "He's worked so hard for that school. He'd pour his last drop of blood into it if he could. They couldn't have picked a better replacement for Minerva."  
  
"No," said Harry.  
  
He'd kind of assumed Neville had fallen into possession of the Headmastership of Hogwarts, much like Harry had fallen into whatever job he wanted at the time. He'd never really thought about Neville being _qualified_.  
  
"Are you eating that?" asked Drusilla, referring to a truffle-type hors d'oeuvre Harry had been fondling for over ten minutes. "You should, you know. The caterers are absolutely superb. I hired them myself."  
  
"Mmm," said Harry. "Yes." He popped the truffle into his mouth. It tasted of feet. As Harry was well used to attending parties where the food tasted of feet, he didn't so much as wince. "Delicious."  
  
Thus satisfied, Drusilla bustled off in search of her next victim. Harry watched her leave, wondering why he disliked her so. She was obviously harmless, not to mention very much in love with Neville—and the feeling was mutual. Harry caught the soppy grin on Neville's face as Drusilla stopped to load him up with appetisers.  
  
Ginny materialised at Harry's shoulder and hissed in his ear. " _Will_ you stop fussing with your collar—you look like you're being lead to a guillotine. Violet, hello!"  
  
"Hello, Violet," said Harry. Violet looked at him strangely.  
  
"Why did you say hello to her? You don't know her," whispered Ginny.  
  
"Ah." Another Daughter of the Great War.  
  
"Here." Ginny slapped her wineglass into Harry's hand. "Go fill that for me, and for God's sake _pretend_ you're having a good time."  
  
Harry plastered a grin on his face. He would have liked nothing more than to take Neville, Ron, Dean and Seamus down to the local in Godric's Hollow to celebrate Neville's promotion. Alas, that wasn't the kind of life they lead nowadays. Seamus worked in promotion with Firewhiskey Inc., travelling the globe to endorse the multiple products either made or sponsored by the company. His wife and family lived in Frankfurt, where the company headquarters were located. Dean was the manager of Quality Quidditch Supplies and was currently fighting his way through a second divorce. A simple drink with the four of them would have taken months to arrange.  
  
Harry found Ron at the drinks table, deep in conversation with a group of people he appeared to know well. Of course, Ron had worked in the Auror Department for a decade more than Harry, not to mention that he was hugely involved in a lot of activities for pre-Hogwarts kids. It made sense that he'd have a circle of acquaintance far larger than Harry's own.  
  
Harry raised his glass at Ron—an invitation to join him. Ron raised his full glass in return—invitation declined.  
  
Harry lingered a while at the drinks table, pretending to be interested in the choices the barman was offering him. White wine, red wine, gin, tonic, vodka, Firewhiskey, Butterbeer, minerals; with ice or without; with lemon or without; with an umbrella or without; the possibilities were endless. Harry thought about fetching Ginny a Butterbeer, tonic and red wine cocktail, with ice, lemon and three umbrellas, but he decided he'd already tested her temper too far tonight.  
  
As he glanced around the room in search of her, his eyes lit on several people he knew. Hermione, red-faced and arguing with other Ministry workers, frizzes of hair working loose from her French twist. George, his flailing arm movements suggesting he was demonstrating some of the more desirable side-effects of his new range of sweets. Fleur, still pale and lovely in her mourning for Bill, who'd been crushed to death in an Egyptian landslide. A number of ex-schoolmates of all descriptions, portly from years of good living, with their partners never far from their sides.  
  
Harry was almost overwhelmed with the tedium of it all. How often had he stood beside a drinks table like this one, counting the minutes until he had to return to one of these groups and make inane conversation? Each of them straining to break away from the heart-core: their schooldays, and none of them willing enough to do it.  
  
Hermione was no longer the girl who'd steal from a teacher's stores to make an illegal potion. Ron was a leader in his own right. And Neville? Neville, the boy who'd hopped up five flights of stairs in a body-bind? He was joining the ranks of heroes like Dumbledore and Snape. One day his portrait would hang with theirs, to be remembered forever. Who the hell were these people?  
  
Ginny was in a group by a potted plant, its lush leaves over-hanging her titian curls as if by design. She was laced into a torturous black dress. It left her tummy flat, at the expense of preventing her breathing if she tried to do anything more strenuous than smile. As a result she wasn't, much. Harry couldn't remember where she'd got the frock. Once he could have named every item in her wardrobe, especially the bits in the lingerie drawer.  
  
She was laughing at something a plump wizard was saying, holding her hand to her throat. Harry wondered at what expense she pretended to be so relaxed. In a minute she'd look up and see him dawdling, and her face would close in again. Harry didn't want that, but he couldn't bring himself to move.  
  
He turned around, facing the surprised barman once more.  
  
"Double Firewhiskey, on the rocks," said Harry, handing back Ginny's drink. "And make it snappy."  
  
+++  
  
Hermione worked a seven-day week. She never quite understood that everyone else didn't.  
  
As Harry yawned and scratched his buttocks, he harboured sincere thoughts about investing in a Face-Floo for home. From the cant of Hermione's head, she was talking through one. She was probably already at the Ministry, even though it was seven am on a Sunday.  
  
"What was that?" said Harry. He'd been momentarily distracted from the flow of Hermione's babble about this new edict and that new legislation. Every conversation they had revolved around such things.  
  
Harry was pretty sure Hermione had a diary that read 'Sunday, seven am, schedule time to catch up with Harry.' And, because Harry was half-dead at such an hour, she filled up the slot with work-talk. Now that Harry worked at the Ministry too, it apparently became that much more relevant.  
  
Harry wouldn't know. It was still as foreign to him as it was when he worked in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, flew with the Montrose Magpies, designed custom brooms, wrote a (very) short-lived column in the Quibbler, and trained as a safety inspector in a Muggle technology school, all the in the name of 'finding' himself.  
  
"Hugo says Bussy and Lil are going to Bring Your Kids to Work Day," said Hermione.  
  
"Yeah," said Harry. "Aren't Hugo and Rose?"  
  
Hermione snorted, making green sparks fly up her nose. "Of course not! We did it for a few years, till the kids got old enough to put their feet down about it. It's bedlam, absolute bedlam."  
  
"I should think they'd enjoy that."  
  
"Not all kids are as wild as yours. Mind you keep Lil away from the main Floos. The last time she was round ours she blocked the chimney—it was a week before I could find the counter-spell."  
  
"Whose wand did she steal this time?"  
  
"Ron's—his own fault. If I've told him to hide it when she's around once, I've told him a hundred times. Does he listen? No."  
  
Probably out of self-defence, Harry thought. It really was too early for this.  
  
"Well, I've only got a few months left before Albus Severus starts Hogwarts, and then there's only Lily," he pointed out. "I want to enjoy my kids while they still are kids."  
  
"Really?" said Hermione, as if he'd declared his fondness for bobsledding in the nude. "Personally I can't wait until Hugo and Rose are old enough to hold a rational conversation. Granted, Ron gets a bit teary-eyed when he thinks of Rose going away, but that," she heaved a sigh, "is not for ages yet."  
  
"I suppose I'll see you at work tomorrow, then," said Harry.  
  
"Oh, hardly. I'll bury myself alive in my office to escape those squealing brats." Business as usual, then. "Feel free to send me a memo from Hell."  
  
"Right," said Harry smilelessly, and cut the connection.  
  
The kitchen was cold and charmless as he got to his feet, using the mantle for leverage, and pulled his tartan dressing gown shut. The last remains of a pizza lay abandoned on a baking tray. Harry pulled off a bit of the crust and popped it in his mouth. It had the texture and taste of a leather shoe. He was still chewing when Ginny wandered into the kitchen, hair on end.  
  
"Hermione?"  
  
Harry nodded, tongue working over the mixture of tomato paste and rubber.  
  
"How is she?"  
  
"Good," said Harry. "Talkative. Hugo's not going to Bring Your Kids to Work Day. Nor Rose."  
  
"There's a surprise," said Ginny. "She can barely stand to have them around when she has to, let alone on a voluntary basis."  
  
"Ginny, I love you," said Harry.  
  
Ginny turned from where she was heating milk in a pan. Harry thought she shouldn't have looked so surprised. "Well, I love you too."  
  
"C'mere," said Harry. He abandoned the pizza and held out his arms. After a moment's hesitation, Ginny stepped into them. Harry inhaled the scent of her hair: shampoo and cigarette smoke, from last night, most likely.  
  
"Mmm," said Ginny, as Harry began to kiss his way down from the crown of her head to her lips. "The kids'll be up soon."  
  
"Let 'em." Harry nuzzled into Ginny's neck, feeling her throat move as she giggled.  
  
"What if they catch us?"  
  
Harry hoisted her on to the worktop. "Didn't you say just last week that it's time for Albus Severus to have the Talk?"  
  
"Talk, yes," gasped Ginny, as Harry freed her from her dressing gown and World Cup '98 nightshirt. "I didn't plan on adding—oh!—visual references."  
  
"A picture's worth a thousand words," muttered Harry. He didn't think Ginny heard, and he didn't much care either way: busy, too busy sliding into the best place in the world, while Ginny moaned and sighed and rocked against him.  
  
It took six minutes, according to the microwave clock. The milk hadn't even boiled. At seven minutes, Ginny was clearing her throat and re-tying the cord of her dressing gown.  
  
"That was nice," she said. She pecked him on the cheek and disappeared into the pantry in search of cornflakes.  
  
"Thanks," said Harry, dryly. Nice?  
  
What had happened to 'you make me feel so good I want to die from the pleasure'? Or even 'fucking fan _tastic_ '? Nice?  
  
Still, at least he'd had sex. That made it, oh, twice so far this year. If he got another round in by June, he'd be beating Ron three to nothing.  
  
+++  
  
The first person Harry saw when he stepped out the Ministry end of the Floo was a blonde-haired demon.  
  
He hadn't expected to see anyone he didn't know, having bypassed rush hour entirely by dint of being horribly, hopelessly late. Albus Severus had stayed up till one am to watch a documentary on dodos, and was virtually unrousable at half-past seven. Once awake, he was happy enough to do as he was told, but actually getting him to that point took twenty-five minutes.  
  
Harry still had hopes of making it to work on time and having breakfast as well, until he went downstairs to find Lily on hunger protest.  
  
Although Sin Hong Spellaway had a reliable and speedy service, their best work was done during the hours most people ate Chinese food: lunch, and dinner. They were rather bemused at being called on to provide a breakfast spread.  
  
In the end, Harry had plenty of time to eat while he waited for the delivery to arrive. Lily, on the other hand, was still sucking down chow mein as he stuffed her into the fire.  
  
And now a blonde demon was standing where his children were supposed to be.  
  
"Lily! Albus Severus!" called Harry.  
  
"Are you looking for the kids who just came out of the fire?" asked the demon. It had a dirty nose.  
  
"Yes! Did you see where they went?"  
  
"The girl one went that way," said the demon, pointing at the statuary, "and the boy one went the other way. Or maybe the girl went the other way and the boy went that way. I'm not sure."  
  
"For crying out loud." Harry shot up a spell. It took the form of two yellow rockets, which went speeding off down the corridor. The demon watched with interest.  
  
A minute later the rockets returned, dragging Albus Severus and Lily by the scruffs of their necks. Both were complaining vociferously at such treatment.  
  
"Harry! You promised you wouldn't use that baby spell on us again!"  
  
"Why'd you punish me, Dad? I just wanted to find a bathroom. You made us leave before I had a chance to go, and I was bursting!"  
  
"Didn't I tell you to stay here until I came through?" thundered Harry. Albus Severus and Lily exchanged a look.  
  
"No, actually, you didn't," said Lily. "What you said was, 'jump in the bloody Floo and don't get off at the wrong fireplace'."  
  
Harry had, indeed, said that. Damn Lily and her anal-retentive memory.  
  
"Fine, fine," he snapped. "Did you find the bathroom?" Albus Severus shook his head.  
  
"I can show him," the demon offered. "I've been here loads of times before."  
  
"And you are?" asked Harry, at the same time as Albus Severus said, "Okay!" Before Harry could repeat his interrogation, the demon had extracted its finger from its nose and led his son off to parts unknown.  
  
"Looks like it's just you and me, kid," said Harry.  
  
" _Great_ ," said Lily. She turned her back on him and folded her arms. Harry rubbed his forehead, feeling a new wrinkle take root.  
  
It was going to be a very long day.  
  
+++  
  
Lily was at last distracted by cutting out paper dollies from what Harry would later find to be his unsubmitted reports. After fire and other people's wands, scissors were her most favourite thing in the world. She sat bent over her task, tongue out and curls falling across her forehead. She reminded Harry a little of Ginny—even though he hadn't known Ginny when she was eight, and Ginny at any age had never exuded the air of a firework about to go off.  
  
Harry sat at his desk, surveying his almost-empty office. The Auror Department had been pared down since Harry's schooldays, reflecting the declining need for its services. There was still a lot of prestige and mystique associated with the place—hence the Face-Floos and twice as many potted plants as every other department—but applications to the trainee programme had dwindled to almost nothing. The kids who should have been applying hadn't been born when Voldemort was defeated. Their idea of Dark Magic was nose-biting teacups.  
  
The ferns, water dispenser and Sampson Pye's desk all bore the ravages of Lily's 'inspection.' Sampson Pye only worked part-time. Harry would be able to replace most of Pye's collection of stress balls before his next shift. Probably.  
  
Harry dialled Ron's Floo, but got a busy signal. With a dart of nervousness that was almost fear, Harry wondered where his son was. Albus Severus didn't like new places or strange people. He'd probably been abandoned by the blonde demon and was lost and lonely somewhere, crying in a stairwell.  
  
"I'm done," announced Lily. She'd hung the paper dollies from her belt like a row of scalps. "Where to next?"  
  
"We'll go find Albus Severus," said Harry, "and have morning tea."  
  
Lily's eyes lit up. Harry wasn't stupid enough to think this was at the prospect of her brother's company.  
  
They took the lift back to the ground floor. It was crowded with Ministry employees and their offspring, all in various stages of boredom or sulks. Lily regarded them with interest.  
  
"You're fat," she told one little warlock, who promptly burst into tears. The other parents scowled at her.  
  
Harry pretended they weren't related.  
  
He came across his son sitting on the edge of the restored fountain (which now had a house-elf riding on the centaur's back; years of diplomatic wrangling and bad blood had come of that remodelling). Albus Severus was licking at an ice-cream—Harry hadn't even been aware it was possible to obtain ice-cream in the Ministry—and talking nine to the dozen with the blonde demon. The demon's mouth was liberally smeared with ice-cream, suggesting it had already demolished its cone.  
  
"There you are!" called Harry.  
  
Relief warred with irritation. The blonde demon's robes were on backwards and buttoned wrong. Its hair was one big tangle dripping on to its shoulders. Harry wasn't sure he wanted his son associating with someone so, so ... messy.  
  
A memory, or a reflection, of a crazy-haired child in baggy clothes flitted through his mind. He squashed it.  
  
"Hi, Dad!" Albus Severus waved enthusiastically, almost dropping his cone. "We got ice-cream!"  
  
"I can see that," said Harry, "not being blind." He pulled out his wand from a hermitically-sealed pouch ringed with anti-Lily wards, and Vanished the drips from Albus Severus' sleeve.  
  
"Hey, I was going to lick those!" complained Albus Severus.  
  
"Where'd you get the ice-cream? I want some," said Lily.  
  
"You can't," piped up the demon. "Ice-cream doesn't come from _China_."  
  
Harry had read somewhere that the Chinese invented ice-cream. Clearly Lily's reading had been nowhere like so extensive, for she narrowed her eyes but apparently could come up with no retort.  
  
She rounded on him instead. "Harry, it's morning tea time," she said ominously. "And I want egg-fried rice and more noodles and green tea and fortune cookies."  
  
"The canteen it is," said Harry. He addressed his son. "Coming?"  
  
"Can my friend come too?" asked Albus Severus.  
  
"Your friend, eh?" Harry raised his eyebrows. "And he is?"  
  
"She," corrected Albus Severus. "This is Hypatia Malfoy."  
  
"Pleased to meet you." Hypatia stood up and sketched a little curtsey.  
  
"You don't look much like a girl," said Lily.  
  
"Funny," said Hypatia. "You don't look much like a cow, but you still are one."  
  
"That's quite enough, thank you!" said Harry loudly. "Er, Hypatia, you're welcome to join us. However, you can't kill my daughter, no matter how much you might be tempted. And did you say your name was Malfoy?"  
  
"My _last_ name is Malfoy," said Hypatia, "yes."  
  
"And your father's name is...?"  
  
"Draco Malfoy." Hypatia looked at Harry like he was touched in the head. "Why? Do you know my dad?"  
  
"You could say that," murmured Harry.  
  
Hypatia shrugged. "Well, he's never mentioned you."  
  
"Huh," said Harry.  
  
"Hypatia goes to Mr Drumm's day school," said Albus Severus, bouncing along beside Harry. "She says he lets them use his wand! Isn't that cool?"  
  
"Sub-zero," agreed Harry. He kept prodding Lily to walk on the opposite side of him from Hypatia. The last time Lily looked at something like that, it had exploded and Hermione got extremely annoyed. She'd really liked that cat.  
  
They were all sitting down to scones and jam—except for Lily, who got rice crackers—when Draco Malfoy burst into the canteen, wild-eyed and frantic.  
  
Harry would have known him anywhere. He looked exactly as he had at seventeen—a little sharper around the chin, maybe, and with grey hairs and wrinkles that became obvious as he swooped down on Hypatia—but essentially the same.  
  
"Sweetheart!" Malfoy threw his arms around Hypatia, his sleeves dragging in her whipped cream. "I was so worried."  
  
Hypatia wriggled around until she could get her scone into her mouth. "I tol' you I was goin' explorin'," she said indistinctly.  
  
"You left me a _note_ ," said Malfoy, "under the _In Tray_. If Stacey hadn't needed to dictate that Owl to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, I don't know _what_ would have happened."  
  
"You're ruining my snack," said Hypatia. "Go away."  
  
"For pity's sake, Hypatia—" Malfoy became aware for the first time of the other people at the table, for he froze. His eyes travelled from Lily's Weasley curls to Albus Severus' messy brown hair and bright green eyes, and finally came to rest on Harry himself.  
  
"Potter," he said, in a shocked little voice.  
  
"You _work_ here?" said Harry. Despite Hypatia's presence, it hadn't really dawned on him until then.  
  
"Amazing," said Malfoy. "Apparently your idiocy _is_ terminal."  
  
Harry took a deep breath—a thousand thoughts buzzed in his head, what and why and how and Jesus—and let it out—he itched to hurl back a scathing reply, felt his own skin for the first time in years. He laughed.  
  
"Do you want a scone?" he asked. Malfoy looked at him warily.  
  
"Is it poisoned?"  
  
"Only if you prefer your jam that way." Harry waved at a seat. "You might as well. These lot are in for the long haul."  
  
It was true: Lily was harassing a canteen worker (the words 'China' and 'ice-cream' were decipherable even at this distance), while Hypatia and Albus Severus were on their third and fourth scones, respectively.  
  
"Your spawn, I take it?" Malfoy delicately picked out a scone from the basket and began patting on butter.  
  
"Yep," said Harry. "That's Lily at the counter, and Albus Severus beside Hypatia."  
  
"Everyone calls me Bussy," said Albus Severus, spraying crumbs.  
  
"Don't talk with your mouth full," said Harry automatically. He caught the wisp of a smile on Malfoy's face before he bent over his knife.  
  
"I suppose you're starting Hogwarts in September," Malfoy said to Albus Severus. "Hypatia is too."  
  
"And Scorpius," said Hypatia. "My horrible older brother," she said, for Albus Severus' clarification.  
  
"Twins?" asked Harry. Malfoy shook his head.  
  
"Irish." At Harry's frown, Malfoy added, "They were born nine months apart. I think it was the breastfeeding that did it."  
  
"Eew, _Dad_!"  
  
The corners of Harry's mouth lifted. Malfoy caught the movement, and nodded. "Yes. Exactly."  
  
"So, where do you work? What Department?"  
  
"Accounts and Boring Paperwork."  
  
Realisation dawned. " _You're_ A Bit Pissed?"  
  
"Are people still using that nickname? God." Malfoy made a face. "It's been nearly twenty years. They should have come up with something better by now."  
  
"Like what? Angry But Pleasant? Ants Bite Posterior?"  
  
"Those are _worse_." Still. Malfoy was smiling.  
  
Harry thought, hard, about why he'd hated Draco Malfoy. He'd been a smarmy little git, and of course he'd tried to kill people. He wasn't so little now, and Harry actually _had_ killed people, so that left smarmy. Harry thought he could probably handle smarmy, at this stage.  
  
"What about you?" Malfoy was asking. "I heard you'd taken a job here, but gossip takes a while to filter down to the basements, and it's never very accurate."  
  
"Auror," said Harry. Malfoy rolled his eyes.  
  
"How boringly predictable. Although—" he leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands "—a bit late in the game. My money would have been on you taking a job right after school."  
  
"I did the training then, right enough," said Harry. "But I wanted to play Quidditch for a while, so..." He trailed off, not feeling terribly comfortable with going over his every half-assed decision with Draco Malfoy. Fortunately, the kids were getting restive.  
  
Lily was back, green tea in hand, and an expression that said she was determined to drink it no matter the taste. Albus Severus and Hypatia were kicking chair legs (not necessarily their own) and discussing the nastiness of their respective big brothers.  
  
"James used to chase after me on his stupid toy broom," said Albus Severus.  
  
"So did Scorpius! Only, it was on baby dragons mostly. Mother won't let us have brooms."  
  
"Baby dragons?" interrupted Lily. "This Scorpius sounds cool. Why isn't he here?"  
  
"He's with Mother," said Hypatia, "thank goodness."  
  
"Well, I suppose I'd best be getting back," said Malfoy. "Tonne of filing to do, as always."  
  
"You can leave Hypatia with us for a while," offered Harry. "I mean, if you want."  
  
"Can I stay, Daddy? Please?"  
  
"All right," said Malfoy. On passing Harry's chair, he leaned down to whisper, "Have her back here at four, or when she starts graffiting walls. Whichever comes first."  
  
His breath was a warm gust down Harry's neck. Harry nodded, and shivered.  
  
When Malfoy was gone he sat back and watched the kids squabble, not really seeing them at all. He probed his mind like a sore tooth. He could feel the hole where his hatred for Malfoy had once lived, but it was empty now, nerveless. The buzzing anguish of it had disappeared. Like everything else in life, it seemed, this had turned soft and bland.  
  
Then again, maybe not so bland. Someone you didn't hate might, in time, legitimately become your friend. There were twenty years of Malfoy he didn't know. Twenty years of newness. Twenty years in which Harry hadn't had the same ten conversations with him, over and over. Even if his daughter did look like a hobo.  
  
Harry finished his scone, feeling his heart thrumming his ribcage like a guitar. He knew this feeling of old. What was it again?—oh.  
  
Anticipation.  
  
+++  
  
Becoming Malfoy's friend was a lot more difficult than becoming his enemy.  
  
On Tuesday morning, after Harry had watered the plants and re-written his report on Mrs Fellows' Boggart in gold ink, Harry betook himself to the lift. As he descended floor by floor, everyone else in the lift exited. By the time the disembodied voice announced, "Basement Level: Stores, Cleaning Staff, Department of Accounts and Boring Paperwork", he was alone. Even the voice's voice was less perky at the prospect of it.  
  
Harry stepped out of the lift and was confronted by a rainbow of greys. Grey clouds were clumped outside the windows—which he supposed was better than the view from most basements—while the walls were off-white, the carpets communist storm, and the doors dull steel. These were few in number, widely spaced. Harry walked the length of the corridor before reaching one whose tarnished placard read 'Dept. A &BP.'  
  
Harry mentally compared it to the foot-square brass plate, affixed to the door of the Auror Department with screws in the shape of gargoyle's heads. The engraved font was heavily embellished and curlicued to the point where it was almost impossible to read. By contrast, it looked very much like someone had scrawled 'Dept. A&BP' on to this placard with a waterproof marker.  
  
Harry hesitated, hand on the (grey) doorknob. The polite thing would be to knock, but no one knocked in the Ministry unless they were going through the Department of Mysteries, and only then because they didn't want to be hit in the face with an unexpected squid. On the other hand, Harry had once nearly eviscerated the Head of ABP. He knocked.  
  
There was no answer, so he knocked again. And again. Eventually, a muffled voice said, 'Come in.' Or maybe 'Go away.' It was hard to tell.  
  
Ever the optimist, Harry opened the door. This was easy for about an inch. After that he came up against some kind of insuperable barrier. He pushed with all his strength—not something that was exactly worth boasting about, these days—and managed to clear a space wide enough through which to squeeze.  
  
The cause of the obstruction was immediately clear. Piles and piles of yellowing parchment were stacked in blocks as far as the eye could see, hemming in the door. The barest twitch of Harry's shoulder set the nearest pile to wobbling. He put out a hand to still it and nearly over-turned it completely.  
  
"I might have known."  
  
Malfoy was standing between two mammoth towers of parchment, which formed crazy spirals that seemed to intersect with each other as they reached for the ceiling. It gave the impression that Malfoy was standing beneath a drooping paper bower.  
  
He had inkstains all over his left hand and a blot on his nose. Tiny pink lines criss-crossed his fingers. He looked tired, and old.  
  
"Once an intrepid adventurer, always an intrepid adventurer," continued Malfoy. "Don't tell me you came down here for an expenses slip. There are memos for that sort of thing."  
  
"I came to see you," said Harry. Malfoy lifted his brows, wrinkling his forehead into corrugated iron.  
  
"Singular," was all he said. He slithered back through the parchment scaffolding with the ease of experience. Harry decided following was as good an option as any. He left the parchment in his wake shuddering like corn in a gale.  
  
Beyond the paper maze lay a window, beneath which two utilitarian desks faced each other. They were stacked high with yet more parchment. Malfoy sank into one plastic chair with a sigh.  
  
"You can sit there if you like, seeing as you insist on inflicting your company on me," he said, with a gesture to the other desk. "Stacey's taking another sickie."  
  
"Who's Stacey? Your secretary?"  
  
"I wish. No, she's my companion galley slave. For the moment, at least. She's taken six days off in the last fortnight. I guarantee she'll be back bussing tables within a month."  
  
"Oh." Harry looked around. Aside from the parchment, of which there seemed to be a never-ending supply, he spotted a hatch leading to a room lined with row upon row of filing cabinets. It stretched back as far as the eye could see. On a little shelf behind Malfoy's desk sat a kettle, some refugee mugs, and a box of tea-bags.  
  
"I'd offer you a biscuit," said Malfoy, "but Stacey ate up our week's supply yesterday."  
  
"I'm fine." Harry thought of the scones that were delivered twice a day to the Auror department, on silver trays with sprigs of mint.  
  
Malfoy made no further conversational sorties. Harry realised it was his turn. "Worked here long?" he asked.  
  
"Sixteen years, three months, two weeks, five days and six hours," recited Malfoy. "And twenty-five minutes."  
  
"That long, huh?" Harry's longest job had lasted eighteen months.  
  
"That short," corrected Malfoy. "What it _feels_ like is an eternity."  
  
"You don't like it here?"  
  
"How stunningly perceptive of you. Ouch." Malfoy made a face and stuck his finger in his mouth.  
  
"So get another job."  
  
"What, and give up my pension?" Malfoy withdrew his finger and inspected it. A slim cut scored his knuckle. "Damn papercuts."  
  
"Here." Harry held out his wand. " _Reflugio._ "  
  
"I don't bother, usually," said Malfoy. "I'd be whipping out my wand every five seconds, then, and I'd fall behind on my desperately important work."  
  
Harry looked at the row of trays on Stacey's desk, all currently empty. 'Meal expenses' read one label, and 'Stationary expenses' another. In fact, all seventeen trays were expenses of one sort or another, right down to potions ingredients and shoelaces.  
  
"Stacey—and before her Trevor, Bert, Noreen, Marjorie, Delusine, Henry, Suzy with a Y, and I forget the others—is supposed to look after expenses, so I can deal with the rest." Malfoy stuck his thumb at the parchment towers. "That's mainly backlog. The chap in this job before me was some halfwit son of a Minister, who let it get into this state while he made paper aeroplanes all day. And that concludes our tour of the Department of Accounting and Boring Paperwork."  
  
"Doesn't anybody, you know," said Harry, " _care_?"  
  
"Do _you_? As long as you get your salary every month?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"The Ministry shows a huge deficit every year," said Malfoy. "They're millions of Galleons in debt to the goblins."  
  
"Oh. That explains all the pro-goblin laws that have been passed lately."  
  
"Your friend Granger would, of course, call that a victory for the equal rights campaign. But you don't see anything coming out for the merpeople or the centaurs, who, by odd co-incidence, don't hold with material possessions."  
  
"Shouldn't there be more people employed here, then? To sort out the finances?"  
  
"Yes," said Malfoy thoughtfully. "There was even talk, a while back, of allocating funds to hire another full-timer to work with me. One who could earn enough to actually live on. It was shelved because the Auror Department needed the cash. Urgent redecoration, I believe it was."  
  
"Oh." Harry squirmed down in his chair. It wasn't his fault, he reassured himself. The Face-Floos had been installed before his time. "So how do you actually get in here in the mornings? Do you enchant the files to move?"  
  
"Absolutely," drawled Malfoy. "I waste the time and energy it would take to Levitate five million scraps of parchment out of my way ten times a week. No, you idiot, I Apparate down here from the main plaza."  
  
"Do you still hate me?"  
  
Malfoy actually put down his papers. "No," he said, after a bit. "Not anything so active as hatred. More a sort of mild repugnance, like one feels for roadkill."  
  
"Why the hell are you talking to me, then?" snapped Harry.  
  
"At this stage, I'd talk to a gremlin for the sake of conversation. Merlin, I'd even have a chat with Weasley, supposing he deigned to show his face here."  
  
"Ah." Harry felt another long-dormant emotion bubble in his chest: anger. Getting angry was like getting high, and he hadn't felt the rush in years. And this was pure, adrenaline-driven anger, not a poor subset feeling like resentment or frustration.  
  
"I suppose I'll be going, then," he said. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay down here, in this grim little prison, and make Malfoy fight with him.  
  
"You do that." Malfoy twinkled his fingers at Harry, sarcastically. "Don't lose your way now. I'm sure the apprehension of all those miscreants has left your brain a bit addled."  
  
"Huh," said Harry.  
  
He Apparated back to the Auror department, just in time for Sampson Pye to come on shift and discover the loss of his stress balls. After a scant two minutes Harry discovered exactly why Pye needed them so much.  
  
The next morning, he didn't even water the plants before Apparating to the basement.  
  
+++  
  
"The canteen," said Malfoy.  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"It's full of things to eat. Many, many things. Tea included. And a mountain range of biscuits. There's no earthly reason why you need to come down here to make tea."  
  
"No," said Harry agreeably. The bowels of hell would probably hold more charm than the basement in the Ministry of Magic. And were probably better stocked with snacks, too.  
  
All the same, he set the kettle on the tiny hob and pulled a tea-bag out of his pocket. He didn't like to encroach on Malfoy's meagre supply.  
  
Harry had also taken to leaving behind subtle packets of biscuits. He was never thanked for it, and he had a feeling they disappeared into the gullet of whatever temp was assigned to ABP for their sins. It had become almost a game: searching for the one biscuit type that would cause Malfoy to shake off his gastronomic indifference.  
  
Malfoy huffed a sigh. "Well, since you're here, you might as well make yourself useful. There's the In Tray. Pick out all the expenses slips and sort them into the right file."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Okay?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Don't you—" Malfoy narrowed his eyes "- have a job of your own to do?"  
  
"Sure I do," said Harry. "Do you want them by date or alphabetical order?"  
  
"Date," said Malfoy. He still looked suspicious, an expression that became ever more entrenched when Harry poured him a cup of tea.  
  
"How's Hypatia?" asked Harry.  
  
"Still refusing to bathe," said Malfoy. "Scorpius keeps trying to push her into the fishpond, to no avail."  
  
"Lily's moved on to a chocolate fad," volunteered Harry. Malfoy never asked about Harry's children the way Harry did about Malfoy's, but Harry carried on as if he did. "Everything has to be covered or dipped or mixed with it. I tasted chocolate-covered cod the other night. Disgusting."  
  
"I can imagine." Malfoy sipped his tea with his face screwed up, like it was brimful of vinegar. "You didn't put sugar in this, did you?"  
  
"A teaspoon of milk, nothing more."  
  
"Right." Malfoy curled his fingers around the mug. It was freezing in the basement. Malfoy had told Harry early on that fires weren't allowed in ABP, for obvious reasons. Heating charms tended to fade quickly, although Harry made a point of casting extra-strong ones on arrival. "Hypatia and Scorpius got their Hogwarts letters yesterday. Longbottom still intends on teaching Herbology for a while, apparently."  
  
"I know. Albus Severus got his letter this morning."  
  
"The man is mad," pronounced Malfoy. "The workload of a teacher is bad enough, let alone that of someone in charge of a whole school-full of brats. And combining the two is just cause for committal."  
  
"I guess he wants to keep in touch with the kids."  
  
"They have very little to do with it. Hogwarts runs on a system that's been laid down for centuries. It's the admin work that will kill him."  
  
"Maybe his wife will help him."  
  
"Maybe." Malfoy gave a choked-out cough, which over time Harry had come to recognise as laughter. "It's still hard to reconcile chubby little Longbottom and Headmaster Longbottom, Esquire."  
  
"I hear you," said Harry. He caught Malfoy's eye and they shared a rare moment of complete accordance.  
  
It was over too soon, as Malfoy finished his tea and began harassing Harry to start on the expenses. It was soothing work, to begin with. All the expense types had different coloured forms. It wasn't until Harry read 'Erumpent horn, 5 G' on a form for meal expenses that he realised the colours meant diddly-squat to the people actually filling them in.  
  
"Bloody hell," he swore. "What is wrong with people?"  
  
"I ask myself that every day," said Malfoy, dabbing at another papercut. "Especially with regard to you. No answers have yet been tendered to me."  
  
"I'm just..." Harry struggled to find the words. "Bored," he finished lamely.  
  
"Poor you." Sarcasm dripped from Malfoy's words, like blood from a squeezed leech. "A fortune at your disposal, a beautiful wife, a huge circle of friends and admirers. Not to mention three young children, which is usually enough to defeat boredom single-handedly. What the hell is missing from your life? A Dark Lord to defeat?"  
  
"Yeah. Maybe."  
  
"I, for one, would prefer a lifetime of boredom for you than an undefeated Dark Lord for the rest of us. Sorry."  
  
"I thought it would be different, that's all," mumbled Harry. "Ginny, my friends, they don't—they don't see me, anymore."  
  
Malfoy sighed. "I'll tell you one thing, then you either cease this self-indulgent babble or leave my office. Love and friendship don't come on and off like light switches. You have to work at them if you want them to grow. Feed them. Trim them. Do other gardening-type things. Otherwise they will _die_."  
  
Harry fiddled with the pink edge of #3431, 'dragon-hide boots, 245 G'. "I suppose," he said. "Hey, how do you know about light switches?"  
  
"My ex-wife is married to a Muggle. You pick up a few things."  
  
" _Ex_ -wife?"  
  
"Divorce, Potter. It happens."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why generally, or why specifically in my case?"  
  
"Specifically in your case, you dolt."  
  
Malfoy scowled. "It's the sort of thing that results from marrying someone you met on a cruise, like I did. Or when you marry a fallen Death Eater who's so far below you he earns five Galleons a week scraping other people's plates, like she did."  
  
Harry's eyes were the size of cartwheels as he processed this. Malfoy rubbed a paper cut irritably.  
  
"Astoria is a lot younger than me," he went on, in slightly less strident tones. "Seven or eight years, to be precise. Young enough to miss out on most of the horror of the war. Young enough to find the bad boy image alluring. At least for a while. Till the money ran out."  
  
"Bad boy?" repeated Harry. "Since when are you a bad boy? As I recall, 'frightful wimp' is the more appropriate term."  
  
Malfoy gave him a very long, very flat look. " _I_ know that. She wasn't so particularly clear on the matter. Or particularly particular. Still, I got two children out of it. One won't wash and the other is ashamed to be seen with me, but you can't have everything."  
  
"Sorry," said Harry.  
  
"For what? It's just what I deserve, isn't it? A coward who chose the wrong side, that's me. You're thinking it's a paltry bit of justice, at that."  
  
"I'm not, actually." They were silent for a few moments. "You don't know me as well as you think you do."  
  
Malfoy snorted. "You may have a few grey hairs, but you're still the half-crazy fool who'll rush in where angels fear to tread, and never puts his mind where his mouth is. If you've learned enough humility in the last twenty years to turn to me when there's no one else left, it's as much as you've done. And it isn't _very_ much, is it?"  
  
Harry clutched the side of the desk, bile rising up his gorge. With an effort, he reined in the instinctive lash of wild magic. He stood up, painfully.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow," he ground out.  
  
"If you say so." Malfoy was already distant, absorbed in the accounts.  
  
Before he left, Harry slammed down a packet of Marshmallow Fancies. They were a long shot, but right now Harry didn't care.  
  
He splashed water on his face in the men's room. He was still breathing heavily with the effort of controlling his rage—and shame. He wasn't much of a friend to anybody, Malfoy or Hermione or Ron. When was the last time he'd Owled Seamus, dropped in on Quality Quidditch Supplies, had a conversation with Hermione that didn't leave him weeping with the tedium of it?  
  
Harry looked at his face in the mirror. Ginny's gentle guidance meant his hair didn't look so much like a disaster zone. His glasses sat wonkily, as they always had since Malfoy broke his nose, but the frames were thick, black, fashionable. He looked like what he was: a well-heeled, respectable Ministry employee.  
  
It wasn't really enough.  
  
+++  
  
"But why not?" asked Harry heatedly.  
  
"Do you think I control the Minister's purse strings?" Hermione sounded exasperated. She took off her reading glasses and pinched the reddened skin of her nose. "This sort of thing has to be cleared with half a dozen committees—"  
  
"How many committees cleared the Face-Floos?" Harry challenged her. He had his answer in Hermione's rising blush. "You did it for Ron. I get it. Can't you do this for me?"  
  
"I'm sorry." Hermione spread her hands: universal gesture of conciliation. "I honestly don't have the funds right now. A lot has gone into drawing up this new deal with the centaurs. We're going to have to start paying them _rent_ for the use of the Forbidden Forest."  
  
"What will centaurs do with money?" asked Harry, thinking of what Malfoy had said about them.  
  
"I have no idea. Eat it? Melt it down for scrap? Either way, they want it, and we have to give it to them. Otherwise we risk having an uprising on our hands."  
  
"Fair enough." Inspiration struck Harry. "What if I were to _donate_ money? Could you siphon it into ABP?"  
  
"We're looking at an awful lot of money," cautioned Hermione. "At least twenty thousand Galleons per annum for a full-time, Grade I salary, not to mention another five or ten thousand for the improvements you're talking about."  
  
Harry gulped. A once-off loss of ten grand was nothing—Ginny spent that on clothes every year—but even he would feel the hit if he paid out twenty thousand for the next decade or so.  
  
He pulled out a chequebook. "Look, here. I'll write you a ten-grand cheque right now. In return, I want the refurbishment started this afternoon."  
  
"And the full-time staff?"  
  
"I'll have to think about that," said Harry. "In the meantime, I can put in a few hours here and there. The Auror Department isn't exactly buzzing."  
  
"Ron does seem to have an awful lot of spare time to devote to the Junior Quidditch League," conceded Hermione. "Very well." She watched as Harry scribbled a cheque. "You know I would have done this myself if I could. I simply—"  
  
"Don't have the money?" Harry leaned across Hermione's groaning desk and kissed her cheek. Hermione went pink with surprise. "It's fine. Honestly."  
  
"What's brought this on?" asked Hermione. "I didn't realise you even registered Malfoy's presence before now, let alone fostered a deeply hidden desire to augment his well-being."  
  
"I didn't," said Harry. "Know he worked here, I mean. As for the rest ... I don't know. I suppose I can't remember why I used to hate him so much."  
  
"He did some terrible things when he was younger," Hermione reminded him.  
  
"So did I." Harry smiled thinly. "I've given up keeping score. I still don't like Malfoy very much, but I want to at least give him a chance. I think he's earned that much."  
  
"If you say so." Hermione didn't sound convinced. "I think it sounds more like you want to save him. You always did have a—"  
  
"Saving people thing?" Harry said it along with her. Hermione had trotted out that old line so often it was starting to limp. "I'm sure you wouldn't have left Malfoy to die in the Fiendfyre. Even if he is, well, Malfoy."  
  
"No, of course not, but—"  
  
"This isn't that different."  
  
Hermione looked like she very much wanted to argue the point, but she pressed her lips together. "I'll get the maintenance team on the Floo," was all she said.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
"How about dinner, tomorrow night? Our place. To celebrate Albus Severus and Rose getting into Hogwarts."  
  
"I think that was a given," said Hermione dryly.  
  
"Still. Say you'll come."  
  
"I'll come. Does Ron know?"  
  
"Not yet," said Harry, hoping Ginny wouldn't get mad at being sprung with an impromptu dinner party. "But he will."  
  
+++  
  
"Merlin on a stick," groaned Ginny. She was sitting at the kitchen table, eating gherkins with whipped cream. "I hope you weren't expecting a lavish do. I think there's about three things in the pantry, and they're all chocolate."  
  
"We can order in some stuff," said Harry. "Caterers, or whatever."  
  
"Or whatever is right." Ginny viciously bit the end off a gherkin. "I wish you'd given me some notice before you turned into Miss Sociability 2016."  
  
"These are our friends, Gin."  
  
"Correction: they are _your_ friends. My friends are the girls from the Daughters of the Great War, my old dormies from Hogwarts, and mothers who have kids in the day school. And when I invite them over, I don't ask you to organise a three-course meal for them. In fact, ever since you whined so much about that Wicked Witches party I held, I make sure you're not even there."  
  
"Those things were disgraceful," said Harry.  
  
"You didn't seem to mind so much when I wore some of them for you."  
  
Harry licked his lips at the memory. It was an old one. Pre-Lily, in fact.  
  
" _I'll_ cook, then."  
  
"Oh, really? What? Rashers and pancakes?"  
  
"I make _good_ pancakes."  
  
Ginny sighed. "I know you do, love. I'm sorry. I just don't feel right, lately. I'm snapping at everyone: you, Mum, the kids."  
  
"Maybe you should see a Healer."  
  
"And be laughed off the premises? No. Everyone gets tired sometimes." Ginny polished off the last of the cream. "I'll go shopping tomorrow. We'll get something together, I promise."  
  
Harry wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Love you."  
  
"Huh." Ginny Banished the bowl to the sink. "Would you love me so much if I weren't such a superb housekeeper?"  
  
"I would definitely love you so much if you weren't such a superb housekeeper," said Harry solemnly. "I love you madly, just the way you are."  
  
"I do believe you're getting soppy in your old age," said Ginny.  
  
She didn't say 'I love you' back.  
  
+++  
  
Malfoy was sweating and very red in the face. He'd taken off his robes and was sitting in a white t-shirt and jeans. Sadly, Harry didn't have long enough to appreciate the incongruity of Draco Malfoy, pureblood fascist, wearing jeans.  
  
"You're behind this, aren't you?" shouted Malfoy, as soon as Harry Apparated. "It's a sauna in here! It's like sitting on Satan's buttocks! This bloody chair is _melting_!"  
  
"All right, all right, keep your hair on." Harry hid a smirk. He'd discovered the hairbrush and mirror Malfoy kept in a desk drawer, divined the concern he felt over his receding hairline from the occasional, nervous pats. It wouldn't be right _not_ to needle him over it, given their history.  
  
"Did you not grasp my meaning?" Malfoy's voice wasn't one decibel calmer. "I can't concentrate. The heat has given me the headache that ate Japan, and what is _with_ the painting?"  
  
Harry looked where Malfoy was pointing. He felt himself recoil. Hermione was a huge fan of Francis Bacon, but she hadn't been allowed to indulge her predilection in the more conservative upper echelons of the Ministry. Here, she'd allowed her taste free rein, and the results were hideous and disturbing. To say the least.  
  
"First things first," said Harry. "Where did they put the thermostat?"  
  
"The what?" said Malfoy sulkily.  
  
Harry glanced around the office. Swanky new chrome desks had replaced the rickety old ones, with chairs to match. In place of the shelf, a fully-fitted kitchenette had been installed. There was nothing to be done about the piles of backlog, but the designers had thoughtfully draped a tapestry across the divide. It featured a unicorn being fondled by a vapid-looking blonde woman, who could have been a remote relative of Malfoy's.  
  
Next to the blood-curdling painting was a small white box. Harry flipped open the lid to reveal—yes!—a dial. Hermione had long ago adapted Muggle central heating to run on embedded charms in her own house. She'd clearly gone down the same route here. Harry wondered why she'd thought putting the thermostat to forty degrees was a good move, though. He quickly spun it back to eighteen.  
  
Malfoy collapsed into his chair, fanning himself. Under his pale fringe his face was a brilliant scarlet. Sweat patches had formed under his arms, and Harry noticed that his feet were bare. He had a daisy chain tattooed above his left ankle.  
  
Malfoy followed his gaze and grimaced. "I was drunk."  
  
"I assumed as much." Harry moved to the new cupboard and opened it. Therein rested a range of delicate china, four boxes of teabags, and an epic collection of Marshmallow Fancies. Harry held up a packet inquiringly.  
  
"I like them," snapped Malfoy. "That's allowed, isn't it?"  
  
"Oh, certainly." Harry smothered a smirk. He'd definitely won that one.  
  
He scooped the mess of papers out of the In Tray and took them to the other desk. He was already sorting through them, looking for coloured forms, when Malfoy said—sounding almost tentative—"What are you doing?"  
  
"The expenses," said Harry. "What does it look like?"  
  
Malfoy's mouth made an O, but no sound came out. Harry decided he quite liked Malfoy when he was silent.  
  
Which meant that he quite liked _Draco._  
  
Perhaps it should have come as more of a shock, but really, Harry had been expecting it. He'd wanted Draco for a friend, as having him for an enemy no longer seemed to be an option, but like and dislike hadn't really come into it until now. .  
  
When he was finished the first round of accounts, Draco made tea. And poured two cups.  
  
+++  
  
The last week before Albus Severus started Hogwarts was a flurry of tears, tantrums, midnight fears and last-minute, frantic packing. When it had been James' turn, he was nothing but excited all summer long, and Harry's only problem was getting him to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Albus Severus was a totally different kettle of fish. He was torn between his love of home and the anticipation he felt for Hogwarts, which had been building ever since he knew what it was.  
  
In desperation, Harry even turned to Draco for advice. Draco had been singularly unhelpful, even for him.  
  
"Be thankful you don't have to Body-Bind him to get him to take a bath, and get on with it," was all he said.  
  
James, of course, had been no help. Albus Severus had long cherished a yearning to be Sorted into Ravenclaw, where, he was reliably informed, all the books lived. James' strutting about the pride of Gryffindor House and his equally disconcerting tales of hazing firsties did nothing to calm Albus Severus' nerves.  
  
Harry wasn't sure he liked the idea of a son of his being in any House but Gryffindor, and said as much to Ginny.  
  
"After all, every Weasley for generations has been in Gryffindor," he said.  
  
At the time Ginny was absorbed in sewing name-tags to Albus Severus' robes. She wasn't very skilled at the spell, and kept sticking herself in the palm.  
  
"Bussy isn't a Weasley," she said sharply. "He's a Potter."  
  
Meanwhile, Albus Severus fretted. "Hypatia said she planned on getting into Ravenclaw come hell or high water. I want to be with her. I like her."  
  
"Rose will probably be in Gryffindor," Harry offered.  
  
"Hypatia said she'd rather _die_ than be in Gryffindor," said Albus Severus, as if that settled the matter.  
  
"Does Hypatia ever say anything about Albus Severus?" Harry asked Draco.  
  
"Potter, my conversations with my daughter revolve around getting her to wash, by coercion, bribes and death threats. It is quite literally the only thing we talk about."  
  
All in all, it was a fraught few days.  
  
At last the first of September arrived. Harry battled with his mixed feelings. He wanted Albus Severus to get this first and worst part over with, but it also meant parting with him for months. Home would be subject to the untrammelled force of Lily and Lily alone. Soon, she too would be gone, and it would be just Harry and Ginny.  
  
"Like a second honeymoon," Harry had suggested, and earned himself a withering glance.  
  
James had somehow cottoned on to Albus Severus' overweening desire to be Sorted into Ravenclaw, for he had spent the morning teasing him about getting into Hufflepuff or Gryffindor instead. By now he was up to Slytherin.  
  
Harry waved his little family through the smog on the platform, keeping his eyes peeled for Weasleys—and Malfoys, too, if he were honest. Hypatia was the first person he saw. She darted past him with a glow of platinum hair, to grab Albus Severus' hand and drag him off. She looked marginally cleaner than the last time Harry had seen her, by which he assumed that Draco had resorted to a Body Bind again.  
  
He caught up with the Weasleys, and they stood around chatting. James ran up to them carrying what was obviously, to him, the scandalous news that Victoire and Teddy were kissing. Lily declared herself in favour of a marriage between the two. Her last wedding had been George's, where she'd stuffed herself silly with meringues and danced till two in the morning. Harry imagined this coloured her opinion rather more than the suitability of the pair for marriage, something of which he himself was gravely in doubt.  
  
At one point, Ron pointed out Scorpius Malfoy. Harry looked over with interest. Unlike Hypatia, who had a great, hawk-like nose and the build of a miniature sumo wrestler, Scorpius was the spitting image of his father. He was tall for his age, slender as a reed, with straight blonde hair falling into his eyes. He seemed to be chafing at the bit, standing with his back to Draco as if impatient to be gone. There was no sign of Draco's ex-wife—not, of course, that Harry would have known her if he did see her.  
  
Draco gave Harry a stiff little nod, which Harry returned. He'd meant to smile, but it seemed ... inappropriate, somehow. Hermione knew about Harry's friendship—for want of a better word—with Draco, because Hermione knew everything anyway, but no one else did. There was never a right time to bring up the fact that he spent most of his working day in the basement filing expense accounts with Draco.  
  
Ginny or Ron would say, "So, and?" There was no 'and'; it was utterly trivial. They might also ask, "Why?"  
  
Harry still didn't have an answer for that.  
  
All too soon, the train was puffing out of the station. Lily, her initial resentment got over, was keen to get home. Ginny led her back to the car while Harry remained on the platform, waving at the train till it was out of sight.  
  
"Bit rotten, isn't it?"  
  
Draco was standing beside him. He looked paler than usual, great purple smudges dusted under his eyes.  
  
"Yeah," said Harry. He coughed a few times to clear his throat.  
  
"I miss them, you know," said Draco unexpectedly. "Even though Scorpius hates me and Hypatia—I don't understand Hypatia, not one little bit; I think she has hydrophobia—I miss them when they're at Astoria's. This feels even worse."  
  
"It is," said Harry, "because each year they spend at Hogwarts takes them further and further away. We're not parents to them anymore, just people who gave birth to them."  
  
Draco sent him an arch look. "Not you personally, I hope?"  
  
"Git."  
  
"That's mature."  
  
"I work hard for it."  
  
"You really think we lose them?" asked Draco, in a small voice.  
  
"Every day," said Harry.  
  
Draco shook himself. "I suppose I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
"No need to sound so excited about it."  
  
"Believe me, I'm not. Your only use to me is in hiding that dreadful painting with your huge fat head."  
  
"Now who's mature?" Harry was smiling as Draco pulled a face and started walking away. His robes were buttoned up tightly; he didn't appear to have a cloak. "Hey, do you need a lift anywhere?"  
  
Draco stood stock still. "I ... that is, no. Thank you."  
  
"Suit yourself." Harry pulled on his fur-lined gloves, grateful for their warmth. The air was a bit nippy.  
  
He waited till Draco reached the designated Apparition point and disappeared before joining his wife and daughter in the car.  
  
+++  
  
Harry sat in Albus Severus' bedroom, reading his latest letter for the third time.  
  
For the first month, Albus Severus had written every day. First the letters started getting shorter; then, the space between them grew longer. Now they were lucky to get an owl from him once a week.  
  
"I'm sorry we bought him his own owl," grumbled Ginny. "At the rate those two write, they could have bloody well shared."  
  
Harry would have argued the point—Hedwig had been his first real friend, and he'd dreamed of buying his children their owls for years—but Ginny was like a bear with a sore head these days. Harry put it down to concealed misery at another chick fleeing the nest. It was a very well-concealed misery that came out sounding more like snappish bad temper; but the only other option was blaming himself for it, and Harry didn't want to do that.  
  
Instead he retreated to the last place Ginny would think of looking for him, and one Lily avoided like the plague: Albus Severus' bedroom.  
  
Harry lay on the bed, his head on Albus Severus' pillow. He fancied he could smell the scent of his second son on it—mint and sweat and James' stolen aftershave. In reality it smelt like what it was, a musty old pillow in a room that hadn't been aired in weeks. And yet, there were some conjurations that had nothing to do with magic.  
  
 _Dear Mum & Dad,  
  
I've ever so much homework to do these days, that's why I haven't written much. I'm sure you don't mind. I still like getting letters from you and I read them all, don't worry.  
  
Hyp and me are tied first in the class. Mrs Chugworthy would be proud, even though she hadn't taught me half the spells I was supposed to know! Hyp helped me catch up in the first few weeks, like I told you before. It really helped. We compare our essays in the library after class so it works really well.  
  
My other friend Marco sometimes comes too, but he's way more interested in Quidditch than we are. He says he wants to be the youngest Seeker of the twenty-first century. Sometimes I think he just made friends with me because of how Dad was the youngest House Seeker of the twentieth century. But then again, I'm pants at Quidditch and Marco knows it. His mum always told him Hyp's father was way better than Dad at Quidditch anyway._  
  
Harry felt ancient and glum at the same time. Clearly his time was done, if all his achievements lived way back in the _twentieth_ century. And if Albus Severus _had_ to make friends with the children of Harry's classmates, couldn't he have gone for one of Ron's kids, or Dean's or Bill's or Colin's or Luna's? Why, oh why, were his best friends the offspring of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson?  
  
 _I don't think Scorpius is settling into Gryffindor too well. He fights with James, like, constantly—which makes a change from me doing it, I suppose. I've asked James not to pick on him so much—a dead bat could see how unhappy Scorpius is, and an unhappy Scorpius is not someone you want living in your House—but James says he always starts it. Of course that means James has to finish it. He's such a Gryffindor sometimes. (Sorry!)  
  
I love Professor Longbottom's classes. I'm so glad the class he decided to keep on was the first year one. James says Professor Pinkerton isn't half so nice as Neville is, and she gives them about three scrolls of homework every week. For Herbology! It's all about growing real live things and she wants them to look up theory books. I'm dreading having her next year, although I suppose it will be interesting to learn about the growth cycles and stuff. That's what Hyp says, although she wants to be a potions designer and all that is really important. Not so much if you want to be anything else, like having an interesting career.  
  
Well, I'd better go. Seeing as it's Friday, me and Hyp and Marco are going to look up Animagi as a treat. If I see James I'll tell him to write, okay?  
  
Lots of love,  
Your son,  
Bussy (Albus Severus)_  
  
Harry smoothed his thumb over the bits of the parchment that had become wrinkled. He didn't know why he'd worried about Albus Severus. He'd settled in so much better and faster than James had; seemed happy and contented.  
  
Harry wasn't happy and contented. Maybe that was what bothered him. The child who'd seemed for years to be permanently welded to his own hip was off having a ball in Hogwarts, making friends with the unlikely denizens of Ravenclaw Tower and doing research for fun.  
  
He was having a far better time than Harry.  
  
"Dinner!"  
  
The call rang out like a klaxon. It clearly wasn't the first time Ginny had called: she saved _Sonorus_ for when she was feeling particularly tetchy. Harry tucked the letter into his pocket and scrambled down the stairs.  
  
Ginny was serving up scrambled eggs on toast with a bad grace. Harry meekly took the plate she clattered in front of him and sat down. Their daughter was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Where's Lily?"  
  
"How should I know?" Ginny dumped more eggs on to a plate for Lily and sent them whizzing down the table. "She heard me call same as you, unless she's run away to France."  
  
Harry contemplated sending one of his rockets to fetch her, but Ginny hated that spell as much as the kids. Hermione had invented it. Ginny resented the implication that she needed magic to make the children obey, or that Hermione was a better mother than her. They'd been in constant, silent competition over that for years.  
  
Harry began to eat his eggs in silence, watching as Ginny added whole cloves to her portion. She poured herself a glass of ginseng cordial to go with it. Harry frowned: unusual combination. The ginseng cordial dated back to Lily's China phase, when it turned out to be so disgusting that even Lily's blind obedience to her fads couldn't force her to swallow it.  
  
"Oh, for the love of—" said Ginny, after a few bites. She stood up, massaging her back, and rang the cowbell hanging over the kitchen door. A few seconds later, Lily came galloping through it.  
  
"Why didn't you answer when I called?" demanded Ginny.  
  
"You called?" Lily blinked her fringe out of her eyes, all angelic innocence.  
  
"Sit down and eat your dinner," said Ginny. "You can have a chocolate bar to go with it but if I hear a single word about chocolate sauce—one single word, Lily Potter—I will Freeze your tongue for a week."  
  
Lily knew when she was beaten. She fetched a chocolate bar from the pantry and sat it in the middle of her eggs, every so often casting a wounded look in her mother's direction. The grim line of Ginny's mouth suggested she wasn't taken in.  
  
Harry couldn't bear to watch his daughter eat eggs and chocolate in the same mouthful, so he switched his gaze to Ginny. She was crunching on cloves with every sign of soul-deep bliss. At one point she reached over her shoulder to Summon more, and Harry saw the creamy swell of her breasts, the slight roundness under her thin robe—  
  
Harry dropped his fork with a clatter, earning himself a glare from Ginny. He picked it up and put it in his water glass, mind buzzing.  
  
Ginny was _pregnant_. She had to be. Harry couldn't believe he'd failed to spot the signs: odd food mixtures, unholy grumpiness, back pain. If he'd missed the morning sickness it was because he went into work early to stop Draco snaffling all the Marshmallow Fancies. The only question was, why hadn't she told him yet?  
  
She might not realise it herself yet, Harry reasoned. Or maybe she was waiting until she was sure. Ginny was superstitious about telling people of her pregnancies before the three-month mark, although the ban had never before extended to the father of the child.  
  
His mind was going round and round, refusing to settle. Harry knew only one thing for certain: he was filled, top to toe, with delight at the prospect. Another baby around the house; another clean slate. He'd _adored_ his children as babies, a feeling he hadn't been able to replicate after they learned to talk. Blind, bone-deep adoration. God, he missed it.  
  
Although Ginny snapped at him twice that evening, before retiring early and leaving him with the dishes, Harry could do nothing but smile beatifically at her.  
  
He couldn't wait to tell Draco.  
  
+++  
  
The window in Draco's office was showing a sky of rosy hue, more reflective of the pay rise in maintenance than any meteorological phenomenon. It cast a sort of lemon light over the proceedings, which Harry decided to take as a good omen.  
  
For some reason he hadn't broken the news straightaway. Overnight, he'd had time to reflect. Draco didn't talk a lot about his own children, and then only when prompted, but he had mentioned one or two poignant items. Like: Astoria was married to a Muggle millionaire, and Scorpius loved staying in their mansion. Or: Scorpius had been a honeymoon baby, Hypatia an accident.  
  
Harry was afraid both of wounding Draco's paternalistic soul, and of him trotting out some scathing comment. Not that Harry couldn't deal with all or any of Draco's scathing comments—swallowed forty of them a day, at least—but he didn't want anything to puncture the balloon of joy swelling inside his chest.  
  
Draco frowned over a report. He was seated sideways in his chair. Harry had counted, one day, and Draco had several permutations of sitting. They related to his workload, current task, general mood and whether or not his sciatica was flaring up. This one, combined with the fact that he'd slipped one foot out of his shoe and was using it to scratch the opposite calf, meant he was relatively relaxed and involved in monkey-level filing.  
  
"I've got some good news," said Harry, in an off-hand manner.  
  
"You're finally leaving me to the peace and quiet I so richly deserve?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Pity." There was no vim in Draco's tone, telling Harry all he needed to know. Draco's protestations were mere form, nothing more.  
  
"Do you want to know what it is?"  
  
"I never supposed I had a choice in the matter."  
  
" _Malfoy_."  
  
Draco scribbled something on the file and slapped his quill down. "There. My full and undivided attention: all yours, for the next five seconds and counting."  
  
"It's like this," said Harry, as Draco held out his hand, fingers extended, and curled down his thumb. "I'm going to be a father again."  
  
"When did you stop?" asked Draco, putting down his index.  
  
"I _mean_ Ginny's pregnant. We're having a baby."  
  
Draco's hand stayed in the air, three fingers stretched out. He didn't appear to notice. "Pregnant? Really?"  
  
"What do you mean, 'really'?" Harry started to get irritated. Scorn he'd expected; bewilderment he wasn't prepared for. "She's only thirty-seven, I'm only thirty-eight. We still have an active sex life." Half a lie. "Why do you look like I said we're planning to adopt a baby crocodile?"  
  
"Do I?" Draco remembered his hand. He raked it through his hair, revealing his receding hairline. "It's just so ... unexpected. I mean, I thought you were done having kids."  
  
"So did I," admitted Harry. "Not that we ever talked about it, as such. It was just ... Lily was a handful, and three kids keep you pretty occupied. I always wanted a few more, though. I'm happy. You're supposed to congratulate me now."  
  
"Congratulations now," said Draco. "Another Potter; just what the world needs."  
  
"Yeah, this one might grow up to save all wizardkind from a dastardly threat!" said Harry. "No, wait. Been there, done that."  
  
"I notice you didn't do anything about global warming while you were out there defeating evil megalomaniacs," said Draco. "Shows a drastic lack of forethought on your part. Not surprisingly, I might add."  
  
"Hero'ing isn't a science, it's an art," said Harry. "You didn't see Monet going around curing smallpox, did you?"  
  
"No," said Draco dryly, "probably because Jenner had that covered a century before he was born. But I take your point. Next time I need my portrait painted, I'll call on you."  
  
"I'll be sure to include every wrinkle and liver spot—in the name of authenticity, of course."  
  
"Flowers," said Draco.  
  
"Dead ones?"  
  
"No, for We—for Ginny." Draco said the name like a foreign word he'd read but never heard pronounced. "Buy her some flowers. She's going to carry your misbegotten child for the next nine months. It's the least you can do."  
  
"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, I will. Good idea. Thanks, Draco."  
  
"That's fine," said Draco in a funny voice. "Now, do you plan on doing any expenses today or will I just carry on as if you don't exist?"  
  
It wasn't until later, when Harry was shelling out a scandalous fifty Galleons for a bouquet long-stemmed red roses, that he realised he'd called Draco by his given name.  
  
+++  
  
"Honey, I'm home!" called Harry, as he came in the door. He remembered when they first moved in together: that had been their favourite joke. It was always Harry's line, of course. Ginny gave up her 'dead boring' job working the till for George when she got married, and never went back.  
  
The house was quiet as a tomb. Harry laid the roses on the hall table and tiptoed through the house, hoping to find Ginny so he could surprise her.  
  
Ginny wasn't in the sitting room, but Lily was. She was sitting quite still—Harry was tempted to grab a camera to record this new departure—under a tent made of blankets and the dining room chairs. When Harry stepped on the creaky floorboard she looked up. Her small face was streaked with tears.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned. He hoped she hadn't made anything expensive explode.  
  
"Oh, Daddy!" And her face crumpled. Shocked to be called such at last, Harry let her crawl into his lap and wipe her snotty nose on his shoulder.  
  
"Are you hurt? Did something happen?"  
  
Lily shook her head. Her nose burrowed into his neck.  
  
"Tell me what's wrong, Lily-flower. I'll make it better for you."  
  
"I miss—" Lily hiccupped. "I miss him! The stupid stinker."  
  
"Who do you miss?" Harry patted her back, hoping it would help get her ragged sobs under control.  
  
"Bussy!" howled Lily. "I miss him loads! I wish he'd never gone to Hogwarts without me."  
  
"But darling, he's two years older than you—"  
  
"I don't _care_!" Lily pulled away, her face furious and red. "Why'd he have to go and leave me here? He didn't even write me one letter."  
  
"He wrote letters to all of us, you as much as anyone."  
  
"I want my _own_ letter!"  
  
"Did you tell him that?" asked Harry gently. Lily's lip stuck out as she shook her head. "Then how was he to know? Say you wrote him a letter first. I'm sure he'd write one back. He might even put in a little surprise for you." He must remember to suggest that to Albus Severus next time he wrote himself.  
  
"Really? For me?" The prospect of material gain delighted Lily's eyes as much as ever. She was well enough recovered to start pushing Harry out of her 'tepee.' "I'm a Red Indian now, and I'm only going to eat turkey and grain," she announced.  
  
"So you really miss having your brothers around, eh?" said Harry. Lily shrugged.  
  
"They're all right. It's better having people to play with all the time. The kids at day school aren't the same."  
  
"Well, you're in luck. You might be getting another little brother or sister very soon."  
  
"Huh? How?"  
  
Too late, Harry realised Lily hadn't had the Talk yet.  
  
"Er, Mummy and I made one," he said feebly. "In Mummy's tummy."  
  
"Did you cut her open?" asked Lily with interest.  
  
"No, not quite." Harry coughed. "I'll explain it to you when you get a little older."  
  
"When will my new brother be coming? Tomorrow?"  
  
"No—it takes months and months to grow a baby."  
  
"Then it's not much use to me now, is it?" Lily sat squaw and imperiously closed the tepee. "Remember, Harry, grain and turkey," floated out from behind it.  
  
Harry grinned and stood, rubbing out a kink in his knee. The floorboard creaked; Harry looked up.  
  
Ginny was standing there. She'd probably heard the whole conversation. Harry, smiling, moved towards her. Her face was deathly white.  
  
"There's something I have to tell you," she said.  
  
+++  
  
Harry proposed to Ginny Weasley on the thirtieth of June, 2004.  
  
He hadn't exactly intended to do it then. He _was_ sure he wanted to marry Ginny. He'd pretty much been sure since he was sixteen years old, although back then he didn't acknowledge it. There was the world to save and everything; and besides, it wasn't a very masculine thing to want—marriage and a wife and kids. Seamus was forever talking about the wild time they'd have as merry bachelors. Harry had nodded and grinned at the appropriate places in Seamus' speeches, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew what he wanted. He never thought he'd get it.  
  
After the war ended they'd been too careful, too fragile with each other. Harry wanted Ginny to light up like the sunbeam she'd been during their brief relationship. But she was scarred by the death of her brother, Harry's earlier abandonment, the grief that withered branches of everyone's lives. Harry, too, hadn't been sure of anything or anyone during that troubled time.  
  
He decided it was best to leave for a while, to clear his head. First he'd stayed in a remote farmhouse in the west of Ireland, belonging to one of Seamus' long-dead relatives. After that he'd toured the more desolate areas of Brittany and spent some time in the Channel Islands.  
  
Before he left, he asked Ginny to wait for him. No promises, no commitments. Only that she'd wait till he returned before making a decision one way or another.  
  
In the end it was two years before he came back to England. Their communication was sporadic in that time; he wrote more to any one of her brothers, except Percy, than to Ginny herself. With the physical distance had grown a mental one. Harry still felt his future would not be the one he longed for without her. But, just as he never expected to win her in sixth year, so he expected that their first meeting on English soil would be the one in which they said goodbye.  
  
Ginny looked so good that day he'd felt his heart literally turn over in his chest. He left the Burrow the next morning to go flat-hunting, happy enough to make a thousand Patronuses. A week later Ginny moved in with him.  
  
For five years that remained their status quo. They were best man and bridesmaid at Ron and Hermione's wedding, when Harry was twenty-two and Ginny twenty-one. He'd thought about asking her to marry him afterwards, but it seemed too early. They hadn't had years together like Hermione and Ron. In his heart of hearts, Harry was scared. What they had already was as near to perfect as it was possible to be. Marriage might ruin that—Mrs Weasley's barely-veiled threats about children born out of wedlock notwithstanding.  
  
All the same, he'd bought the ring a month after Ron and Hermione got back from their honeymoon. It was a single solitaire set in a white-gold band. Every so often he'd take it out of its hiding place to drink in its frosty glitter.  
  
When he was twenty-five he decided _this_ was the year, and took to carrying it around in his pocket. Six months passed. He felt a grand gesture was necessary and fell to organising it for September and Ginny's birthday.  
  
In the end, no fanfare accompanied the proposal. Harry made not a single fine speech and what he did say was marred by stutters and sweaty hands. They'd made a picnic to take to Hampstead Heath. The next day they were to go to a birthday lunch for Harry, organised by Hermione at her and Ron's new house. Harry felt the hard shape of the ringbox in his pocket as they lay on their stomachs, drank Pimms and ate wilting sandwiches.  
  
Harry couldn't remember exactly what he said. The words melted into a hot haze in his mind. It was probably along the lines of what he was thinking: that he didn't want to spend another birthday without Ginny as his wife.  
  
Whatever it was, it worked. Ginny screamed, cried, and within a few minutes was kissing him passionately, the ring firmly on her finger. They'd had to leave the Heath soon afterwards, or risk being arrested for public indecency.  
  
The grand gesture turned into an engagement party. Ginny couldn't stop flashing her ring, even though everyone there had already seen and admired it—in some cases, many times over. The room was heady with the smell of deep red roses, Ginny's favourite flower, lavish bouquets of which were clustered in every corner.  
  
"Red roses for true love," she said, and he tucked one in her hair—  
  
+++  
  
Harry's head buzzed. A hive of bees had suddenly taken up residence there, cutting Ginny's words into incomprehensible chunks.  
  
"I am pregnant," she said, "but it's not yours."  
  
"I am pregnant."  
  
"It's not yours."  
  
"Pregnant."  
  
"Not yours."  
  
"Not yours."  
  
"Not..."  
  
"What?" said Harry—stupidly. He'd heard her. He couldn't stop hearing her; the words scorched a groove into his brain. But he couldn't actually think; couldn't formulate the necessary words.  
  
Ginny was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, mouth taut. Her eyes, by comparison, were wide and brimming with tears. That wasn't right. Ginny wasn't the one who should be crying.  
  
Dimly, Harry realised she had her hands outstretched to clasp his own. It was by a great effort of will that he managed to pull them back. He clenched them in his lap.  
  
He stared at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. She looked just as she had an hour, a day, a week ago, when her love had been the one thing he could count on. She opened and shut her mouth several times, but never made it to speech.  
  
"Why?"  
  
The word crashed through the brittle silence. Ginny winced. He must have shouted. He couldn't remember doing it.  
  
"Maybe I wanted to name one myself, this time," she flashed. Harry just stared at her, not even feeling the dart land. There was a pause. "I'm sorry. That was cruel."  
  
"No," said Harry. "No. Having a baby by another man, _that_ was cruel. Everything else is just bitchy."  
  
"I suppose I deserve that."  
  
"Don't ask me what you deserve." Harry put his hands to his head, curled his fingers in his hair tight enough to cause pain. He somehow hoped that by externalising his anguish it would leave his mind—that it would stop hanging over his thoughts like a massive grey pall.  
  
After a minute, when Ginny maintained her silence, Harry added, "Is that really it? You resented the names I chose for our children?"  
  
"Oh, love, of course not. It's much more than that."  
  
"How _dare_ you do that?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Sit there and call me 'love'. You don't love me. No one could do something like this to the person they loved."  
  
Ginny raised a shaky hand to her mouth. She only bit her nails under the direst provocation. Harry was vindictively pleased to see this situation warranted such a reaction.  
  
"Will you let me explain?" she asked.  
  
"What's to explain?" spat Harry. "You went and ... and _whored_ yourself out to some stranger, and now you're pregnant. I don't need a labelled diagram. Who is he, anyway?"  
  
"Harry..."  
  
"Tell me who he is, or I swear on Dumbledore's grave I won't be responsible for my actions."  
  
"As if I could tell you, after that! I still care about you. I don't want you doing something you'll regret."  
  
"Oh, like you did?"  
  
Ginny's voice was very low when she said, "I _don't_ regret it. I was happy—so happy when I found out I was carrying his baby. I love him."  
  
"And does he know about your little bundle of joy?" The pain made Harry bitterly sarcastic.  
  
"He does." Ginny nodded, as if Harry wouldn't believe her otherwise. "I was going to tell you ... later. I was waiting to pick my time. I didn't realise you'd figure it out on your own."  
  
Harry suddenly felt very tired. "We've been married thirteen years. We have three children—don't you think I'd recognise the signs?"  
  
Ginny bit her lip. She didn't look well at all, Harry noted. The fingernails she was gnawing were already chewed down to stubs, hangnails peeling down the sides. Her hair was greasy, her face pallid but for the midnight circles of tiredness under her eyes. She looked like Harry felt.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said.  
  
"Oh, well that's _fine_ ," said Harry. "As long as _you're_ sorry, that makes everything all right."  
  
" _Please_ ," begged Ginny. "You must be calm about this. We have to decide what to tell the children."  
  
Harry looked at her blankly. "The children?"  
  
"Yes," said Ginny. "You understand, don't you? I won't be staying here anymore. Not now that you know. We need to discuss visitation rights—where they go in the summers—"  
  
Harry listened in growing amazement. Ginny had it planned down to a T. This was no spur-of-the-moment mistake. She'd cheated on him, willingly and continuously. And now she was leaving him.  
  
"What did I do wrong?" he asked, for the first and last time.  
  
"Nothing. Nothing. It was ... more what you didn't do right." Ginny picked at a hangnail, leaving a raw wound. "I'm not the same person I was when we got married. I want more—out of marriage, out of life. I want a new start."  
  
"And what about me?"  
  
"You'll survive," said Ginny gently. "You're Harry Potter! You faced down Voldemort. You saved the world."  
  
"And it wasn't enough."  
  
Ginny hesitated before answering. "Not ... not enough to build a life on. A marriage on. I truly am sorry."  
  
"Oh, stop saying that." Harry waved a hand irritably.  
  
"Well, what do you want me to say?" said Ginny, regaining something of her old spark.  
  
"Nothing," said Harry. He meant it. "Go away, Ginny. Just leave me alone."  
  
Ginny obeyed. Harry listened to the soft shuffle of her footsteps on the tiles, the clasp of the door closing. Presently the stairs creaked.  
  
Harry sat for a long time with his head in his hands—not thinking, not moving, almost insensible with the pain. When at last he could move again, he walked like a zombie into the hall. He spotted the roses he'd bought for Ginny, six hours ago when he thought she was going to make him a father again.  
  
He systematically dead-headed every flower, spilling the crushed and bruised petals on the floor, before going upstairs.  
  
Ginny was asleep on her stomach, fiery hair splashed across the pillow. Harry felt his eyes fill with hot tears.  
  
He sleep-walked across to Lily's room and shook her awake. She revived slowly and groggily, and was none too happy to be woken in the middle of the night.  
  
"Get up," said Harry, "put on some warm clothes."  
  
"Don't wanna," mumbled Lily, trying to burrow back under the duvet.  
  
In one swift movement Harry wrenched it off the bed completely. " _Up_ ," he commanded, in a voice that would be obeyed.  
  
Looking frightened, Lily hopped out of bed. She hissed as her bare feet hit the cold floor and wasted no time donning two pairs of socks. She kept darting little, uncertain glances at him as she pulled on a dress and robe over her pyjamas.  
  
She wouldn't be Lily if she didn't question authority at least once. "Where are we going?" she asked. But her voice was subdued, and she slipped her little hand into Harry's as she'd used to do as a tiny child.  
  
"On a car trip," said Harry, trying his best to instil brightness into his tone. One look at Lily's face told him he'd failed miserably. "We're going to see your brothers."  
  
+++  
  
Years after, Harry never understood how he didn't kill himself and Lily that night. His sole focus of attention was the throb of Ginny's words in his head—not his driving, and not the multiple phone masts he undoubtedly came close to wrapping his car around.  
  
Lily dozed fitfully in the back seat. Harry's only clear memory of those few hours was of Lily waking up to ask, "Where's Ginny? Is she coming soon?"  
  
"No," Harry had said, in a tone he later realised was unwarrantedly harsh. "She's never coming with us again."  
  
Lily might have cried after that; but when Harry next thought to look in the rearview mirror, she was fast asleep.  
  
They pulled into Hogsmeade just as dawn was stretching out skinny fingers to claim the sky. Harry parked the car outside Zonko's—now greatly dilapidated of frontage, given the Weasleys' excellent success in stealing their custom. The ground was lightly coated in frost, as if someone had accidentally spilled a truckload of sugar crystals over the village.  
  
Harry leaned into the backseat and shook Lily awake. Her first question was, "Where are we?"  
  
"Hogsmeade," said Harry.  
  
"Oh." Lily knuckled her eyes. "I thought I dreamed that."  
  
"No, you didn't. C'mon on." Harry reached out for her hand, but she shied away. Harry didn't have the patience to argue, so he just grabbed her by the shoulder and Side-Along Apparated her to the gatehouse of Hogwarts.  
  
The gatehouse was invisible to all but parents and visitors to Hogwarts. Harry was more grateful than ever for its presence that morning; even his brief spell waiting on the doorstep introduced him to the cold snap in the air quite thoroughly.  
  
A decrepit house elf ushered them into a well-appointed sitting room. Harry wasn't in much of a state to notice anything, but he did feel that the room was rather more pink than he remembered. The reason for this was soon obvious: Mrs Longbottom bustled into the room, wrapped in a frilly dressing gown. Harry wondered how Neville could bear to be married to a woman who possessed the same mental palette as Umbridge. Then again, Drusilla Longbottom had never cheated on her husband. She'd never fallen pregnant with another man's child. So far there were a lot of points in her favour.  
  
"Mr Potter!" she was saying, so Harry tuned in. "How charming of you to pay a visit! At a rather unexpected hour—but regardless, you are welcome. This must be Lily? Neville's told me all about you."  
  
Except for the part about his wife being a lying, cheating slut, but Neville probably didn't know that yet. Unless—what if the child was Neville's?  
  
Fortunately Drusilla had the same attitude to conversation as a tractor had to mud: she just ploughed on through, not requiring anything approaching equal input. Plus, Lily kept her occupied. Her innate interest in all things delicate and breakable required Drusilla to interrupt her own monologue with politely couched warnings, which Lily totally ignored. All the while, Harry's brain burned with the idea that his wife's other man was Neville. After all, they'd gone to the Yule Ball together, hadn't they?  
  
At last Neville came down, also in his dressing gown. He'd always been an unhappy riser. Of course, now that he ran the school, he could keep whatever hours he pleased.  
  
Somewhere, a part of Harry's mind stayed switched on to current events, and it realised that Neville and Drusilla must be living in the gatehouse. It made sense. The gatehouse was spacious, with a huge garden—plenty of room to bring up a family.  
  
Neville asked Harry if he'd like some tea, and Harry began to cry.  
  
The sobs weren't dignified or manly: they were snot-ridden, choking, tearing through his throat as if armed with machetes. With one, horrified glance at Drusilla, Neville got Lily out of the room. He sat down beside Harry on the sofa and let him cry. He didn't touch him, for which Harry was grateful. He would have flown at anyone who dared come that close.  
  
After a while, Harry's sobs quieted. He was left gasping for air. Neville conjured a handkerchief and sent it floating into Harry's hand.  
  
"Is someone dead?" asked Neville, with admirable composure.  
  
Harry shook his head. The air dried the tears on his face, making them itch. "No, no, not dead. Not dead."  
  
"That's all right then." Neville's tone was brisk. "Everything else we can deal with."  
  
"No." Harry stopped himself before he started another litany of 'no's. "It's worse than that."  
  
"Worse than death?" Neville laughed. He stopped at the look on Harry's face. "Please tell me, or there will be a death—mine. You looked just like you did when you—came back. You know."  
  
"That bad?" Harry swallowed a few times—took a gulp of the tea Neville had Summoned (when? Harry hadn't noticed). "It's Ginny. She—she—she—"  
  
"Take your time," said Neville.  
  
"Pregnant. By someone else," said Harry, all in a rush.  
  
" _No_ -o-o." The word was a long gasp.  
  
It wasn't Neville. It couldn't be. The alert part of Harry's brain had noted the eerie syncopation between Neville and his wife.  
  
It couldn't be Neville. Not yet.  
  
"I need the boys. I have to take them out of school. Just for a bit."  
  
"Is that wise?" Neville's brow wrinkled with concern. Or maybe it was just wrinkled. Hard to tell.  
  
"I'll take them anyway," said Harry, and: "Besides, when was I ever wise?"  
  
"True," said Neville. "Very well, then. I'm obliged to tell Ginny about it, though."  
  
"Tell her whatever you want." Harry's voice hardened. "These ones are mine, at least. I hope."  
  
"Oh, they are," Neville assured him. "James and Bussy are as like you as they can wink. It's almost frightening."  
  
"Yeah—after all, what did I achieve? A war and a woman who strayed. Let's hope they aren't mine. Maybe that way they'll be happy."  
  
"Oh, Harry."  
  
"Don't! Don't pity me. Just ... fetch the boys."  
  
"All right." Neville sighed heavily. "Let me get dressed and Floo up to the school. I'll Owl ahead. Give me, oh, half an hour?"  
  
"Fine. Where's Lily?"  
  
"I'd say Dru took her to get breakfast—she loves kids."  
  
"So do I," Harry said hollowly. "I was so excited. I knew, you see, I knew she was pregnant before she told me. Only, when she did tell me, it was to say it wasn't mine. I love kids too."  
  
"Of course you do. Drink more tea."  
  
Neville had bewitched it. He couldn't lie for toffee, nor cover-up for chocolate. Still, Harry drank, half-hoping it was poisoned. It wasn't, and he couldn't contain his disappointment; but it _was_ drugged.  
  
Lily ran into the room and he lifted his muggy head. She climbed up on the sofa beside him, tucking her freezing hands under his jumper to warm them.  
  
"I want Ginny," she said, her voice sniffly.  
  
"I know." Harry's thick tongue twisted on the words. "So do I."  
  
+++  
  
Harry pulled into a roadside cafe as soon as James' and Albus Severus' nagging started to get on his nerves. This was approximately five minutes after it started. He thought he'd done well to get in a full hour's driving in before someone started whining for food or tried to strangle a random sibling.  
  
They were still in Scotland: Harry could tell by the sheet of drizzle that separated his windshield from the rest of the world. Beyond that he was clueless. He'd followed turns and intersections without considering directions at all. He also hadn't spoken a word since James and Albus Severus got into the car. They were suitably cowed by this anomaly, but only for a time; just until their ever-growing stomachs got the better of them.  
  
The cafe stood in line with a few dozen houses and a post office on the outskirts of a town—name, unpronounceable. The children tumbled out of the car and ran inside before Harry could stop them, or Transfigure the car blankets into raincoats. He rested his head on the steering wheel for a few seconds before following them.  
  
The cafe was done up in swags of chintzy material, around curtains, chairs and tables. Drusilla would have loved it. Harry let the sound of high-pitched voices guide him to his offspring. They'd snagged a booth—which displayed to its fullest the travesty that was flower-printed leather—and were arguing over the single menu.  
  
"I'm the oldest, I should get to look first," declared James. The point was moot as the menu was firmly ensconced in Lily's sticky little hands.  
  
"Ladies first," said Lily, demonstrating the only point of etiquette she'd ever learned.  
  
Albus Severus had no similar angle, but that didn't stop him. "We have to share," he said. "Lily, you've had it for _ages_. It's my turn now."  
  
Harry sank into the booth beside Albus Severus. The three fell silent, until it became apparent that Harry was neither going to deal justice nor intervene. At that point the war resumed and continued, unabated, until their noise caught the attention of the serving staff.  
  
Given the kind of night Harry had just suffered, it hardly even surprised him to see Draco Malfoy standing before him, swathed in a flowered pinny.  
  
Their eyes met; Draco's cheeks went white, then pink, then red.  
  
"'Lo, Malfoy," Harry acknowledged.  
  
"I—" said Draco. " _Typical_. Of all the cafes in all the world, _you_ just had to walk into _mine_."  
  
"You own this place?" Harry glanced around with a modicum of interest.  
  
"No," said Draco shortly. "I do, however, work here. Are you ready to order?"  
  
"Good God, no." Harry was amused. "We'll have three separate tantrums, one change of mind, two demands for outrageous items not on the menu, and one count of grievous bodily harm, before _that_ marvel occurs."  
  
"Da-ad," objected James.  
  
" _Are_ you ready to order?" asked Harry.  
  
"Well ... no."  
  
"That's what I thought." Harry turned back to Draco, who was fiddling with his apron. "Could we have two more menus, please? Just to forestall the outbreak of World War Three."  
  
"Of course." Draco's fingers twitched in a manner Harry knew well—the instinctive reach for a wand while in the company of Muggles. That the five wizards were the only people in the cafe had nothing to do with it. Circumspection was key in places like these, devoid of every last trace of magical interference.  
  
After Draco located extra menus and delivered them to the booth, the children were silent for a time. Harry, his gaze fixated on the rain running down the window, was late to realise this was not from poring over the Mega Breakfast Deals.  
  
James, as the oldest, knew his duty. He began the interrogation. "Why did you get us out of school?" he asked. "Is Mum okay?"  
  
"No one died, did they?" Albus Severus' lip trembled. "Marco got called out of class last week and he thought he'd got in trouble for the Dungbombs in the Gryffindor dormitory—"  
  
"That was Marco?" James exclaimed. "The little rotter! I'll slaughter him!"  
  
"- but it turned out his aunt had _died_ ," continued Albus Severus doggedly. "And she left him a singing teapot that won't stop singing and we've all had to sleep in the common room for days."  
  
"I have to go to day school soon," Lily announced. "Will we get back to Godric's Hollow by ten o'clock?"  
  
"If everyone could just pipe down for a bit," said Harry. There was instantaneous and creepy silence. "Your mother has left home."  
  
As dramatic statements went, this one fell short of the mark. Albus Severus and James exchanged confused looks, and Lily went right on colouring in the picture of singing tomatoes that had come with her menu.  
  
"Where'd she go?" James wanted to know. "On holiday?"  
  
"I can't believe she went on holiday without us!" Albus Severus was highly aggrieved.  
  
"How long is she going away for?" asked James.  
  
"Forever," said Harry. "She's leaving me, she's leaving _us_. She's having another baby—"  
  
"Oh, _no_ ," groaned James.  
  
"- with a different daddy."  
  
"You mean ... not you?" quavered Albus Severus. "Is that allowed?"  
  
Harry laughed: a horrible sound. "Apparently."  
  
Lily froze in place, crayon held aloft, and stared at Harry with big wide eyes. Like a frightened snake, she never blinked. Albus Severus began to cry, James to shout. After a while Harry left them to it, staring across their heads to the speckled window.  
  
James was just beginning to get hoarse when Draco returned, tray in hand. Harry roused himself enough to question this glitch.  
  
"I know you didn't order anything," replied Draco. "I just thought—well."  
  
"What are those?" asked Albus Severus. Liquid was still streaming out of his every orifice, and a large snot-bubble hanging from his nose threatened to pop at any second.  
  
"They're raspberry flummeries," said Draco. He placed a dessert glass in front of each child and whisked a napkin out of his pocket. He held it to Albus Severus' nose. "Blow."  
  
"Do they have chocolate in them?" That was from Lily.  
  
"Better than that—they have crushed-up raspberries, lots of sweet cream, and some chopped hazelnuts on top. Delicious. And best of all, they're a special treat. You're only allowed to have them when your mum and dad split up." Draco held out a spoon to Lily, who took it as gingerly as if it held a live tarantula.  
  
Albus Severus was already digging in. James was the only one who hadn't so much as glanced at his flummery.  
  
"Who says?" he challenged, brown eyes narrowed.  
  
"I do," said Draco. "I made them for my son and daughter when I left their mother. It didn't change anything, and it didn't make them feel better, but at least they got something out of it."  
  
"Huh," said James. "I'd rather have Mum come home than some stupid dessert."  
  
"A lot of kids probably wish things like that," agreed Draco. "It doesn't happen, though. On the other hand, your flummery is there, and you can eat it. That's life."  
  
James stuck his finger into the whipped cream and scooped out some hazelnuts. "It's okay, I guess," he said grudgingly.  
  
"Sometimes okay is all you get," said Draco. "If you want to order anything else, I'll be over at the counter."  
  
"I want green tea," said Lily. She'd developed an unaccountable fondness for it, despite the decline of her interest in China. Draco just nodded, servile obedience personified.  
  
Albus Severus was nearly finished his flummery when he held out his spoon to Harry. "Want some? It's really good. Maybe that man could give Mum the recipe and—oh. Will we ever see Mum again?"  
  
"Yes," said Harry, who up until that moment hadn't been sure. It would have been a just and fitting punishment for Ginny if he didn't allow her to see the kids. "Of course. She'll probably come up to Hogwarts as well, to explain things herself."  
  
Albus Severus' face was screwed up. "I don't understand. How can she have a baby without you?"  
  
"We did have the Talk before you went to school, didn't we?"  
  
"Oh yes," said Albus Severus, too quickly. "You mean she did ... that ... with someone else? Yuck, yuck, disgusting."  
  
Although Harry was inclined to agree, he also felt a ticklish urge to laugh. He excused himself and went to find a bathroom. He had the feeling he looked a proper savage.  
  
Draco stood at the counter with a fistful of bills, but his eyes were on Harry's children as they ate their flummeries. James tried to con Lily out of the remainder of hers. Harry stepped noiselessly towards Draco, feeling strange about the look on his face.  
  
"You knew."  
  
"I had my suspicions."  
  
Harry didn't ask why Draco hadn't told him. The answer was easy to see. "Who?"  
  
"I'm not the one who should tell you that."  
  
" _Who_?"  
  
Draco hesitated. His hands restlessly fanned out the bills. Harry clenched his fists in his pockets and waited.  
  
Eventually, as Harry had known he would, Draco relented. "Basil Forte," he said.  
  
"Who's he?"  
  
"Oh, um—about yay high, grey hair, dapper little man. He was married before—I think she died. No kids. He's a high up in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Your Weasley would know him."  
  
"Ron?"  
  
Draco looked at him oddly. " _Hermione_."  
  
"Have I met him?"  
  
"How the hell should I know? Probably. He's not very memorable."  
  
"Not like me, eh? Written up in a dozen history books before I was two. She was clearly going for the man on the street."  
  
"It'll be all right," said Draco, and: "Harry. It will."  
  
"No, it won't," said Harry. "Nothing will ever be all right again."  
  
And he went returned his children.  
  
Fifteen minutes later he was back. "Hey, Draco? Do you know the way from here to Hogwarts?"  
  
+++  
  
Harry slid back into the car, shivering and wet after just a five-second dousing. Draco was drumming his fingers on the wheel. Somewhere around Aberdeen, he'd hollered a spell to stop the engine, and yelled and pushed and threatened hexes until Harry's children were cheering and Harry was forced to let him drive. They made the rest of the trip in just under two hours—half the time they'd spent with Harry driving and either ignoring or arguing with Draco's directions.  
  
There was silence for a time. The windows steamed up. Harry's hair dripped on to the upholstery and the rain made a sound like butterflies trapped in a paper lantern. At last, Draco said, "I keep a flat in Hogsmeade. You can—dry off, Floo out. Collect the car later. Whatever you want. I'm not letting you drive in this condition."  
  
Harry wanted to say something about how Draco regarded speed limits as things to be broken not obeyed, but he didn't. Tired to the bone, he simply nodded.  
  
He closed his eyes as Draco drove them down the winding road to Hogsmeade. Lily hadn't wanted to be left at the gatehouse for Ginny to collect. However, in a spectacular display of cupboard love, she'd changed her mind once the tantalising smell of Drusilla's cookies reached her nostrils. James and Albus Severus were delighted to have a signed note from the Headmaster excusing them from homework. Harry didn't know if this were a testament to the amazing resilience of childhood or plain old denial at work. Either way, he was glad they had made no further fuss. Let Ginny, the instigator of this cruel madness, deal with that.  
  
It was only when the soft purr of the engine cut off that Harry realised they'd arrived. With a furtive glance, Draco tucked the car keys in his own pocket.  
  
"I have to key in a code to get inside," he said, "but after that we can Apparate straight up."  
  
He took Harry's silence for assent. When Draco opened the door and darted into the rain, Harry did the same: only, he plodded. Who cared about rain? It was only wet.  
  
Draco's hand on his shoulder grounded him, making him feel the chill throughout his body contrasting with the warmth of Draco's skin. He found himself pushed into an armchair, the centre of a flurry of activity as Draco lit lamps, kindled the fire and brewed up delicious smells from the kitchenette.  
  
"Take off those wet things," instructed Draco. "I'd berate you for staining my second-hand sofa, but you are going through a capital-T tragedy, after all."  
  
"Gee," said Harry, voice as dry as his clothes were wet. "You're the milk of human kindness, you are."  
  
"You know, people tell me that all the time."  
  
Harry peeled off his robe. He was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers beneath, both an attractive shade of grey. Ginny had 'better things to do than separate colours and whites,' he remembered with a pang. Draco clucked as Harry bent over to untie his shoelaces.  
  
"All of 'em, Boy Wonder. I won't have you coming down with pneumonia. I might catch it."  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. In turn, Draco flushed and scowled.  
  
"I'm turning my back," he called. "I'm walking away. I'm definitely not sneaking a peek at the Potter crown jewels. I'm fetching you a towel to cover the hairy arse I absolutely didn't see..."  
  
"I don't have a hairy arse," growled Harry. He snatched the towel out of midair and wrapped it tightly round his hips.  
  
"See? Told you I wasn't looking." Smug, Draco handed him a mug of soup. "Sit in front of the fire."  
  
Harry didn't need telling twice. As he warmed up, he felt just how cold he was. Draco reappeared with a dressing gown and another mug of soup. After a few minutes, a plate of toast floated in from the kitchen.  
  
"What, no raspberry flummery?"  
  
"Only if you want it."  
  
Harry shook his head. "Where did you learn to cook?"  
  
"Used to sneak into the kitchens and order Dobby to teach me." Draco grimaced. "It's a wonder I learned anything, really. Every time _I_ made a mistake, _Dobby_ would upend a teakettle over himself, or something similarly ridiculous. Bloody house elves."  
  
"I see you don't have one now. Signed up to SPEW, did you?"  
  
"Hardly. I just can't afford one."  
  
Harry took a closer look at his surroundings. Second-hand, shabby furniture, a dearth of luxury ornaments, holes in the carpet. The fall of the house of Malfoy. "What happened?"  
  
"Death Eater taxes," said Draco. "Or 'Bursaries Collected for the Relief of Voldemort's Victims.' He had a lot of victims, did the Dark Lord. Fifty thousand Galleons a year's worth."  
  
Harry gaped. Seventy thousand Galleons was a standard Ministry salary for the higher-ranking posts, and Draco's wasn't that. "How do you manage?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "I work in the cafe, which I specifically picked because of its distance from any registered wizard. I also rent out the Manor to Muggle tourists and business companies. It's hosted about forty weddings, not including my own. Astoria's husband helped me set it up. He's a decent chap."  
  
"Will I say that about Basil Forte, in ten years' time?"  
  
"Ginny will come back to you," said Draco. "What you have with her is nothing like what I had with Astoria—moonbeams and infatuation."  
  
Harry felt a wetness crawl down his cheek. He turned his head away from the light. Draco shouldn't see him cry.  
  
He fell asleep there by the fire, like an old man. He woke up in a bed. Draco must have got him there. Harry even thought he remembered being carried.  
  
Draco was always crap at Levitation Charms.  
  
+++  
  
"There's two types of tea: one with potion, one without," Draco asked every morning. And every morning for a week, Harry said, "With," and spent the day curled up in Draco's ratty little pull-away bed, while Draco Floo'd to work.  
  
On Sunday, when he knew Draco would be around (Saturday he went to Hogwarts to see Hypatia and Scorpius—Parent's Day was Neville's brainchild), Harry said "Without." The hangover from the potion was brutal, but it was nothing to being wide-awake to his loss.  
  
Just when Harry thought he'd seize up from choked-back tears, Draco came into the room. He didn't say anything, just lay on the bed behind Harry and put his arms around his waist. Harry clutched Draco's hands like life buoys on a storm-wracked sea.  
  
"Just relax now," whispered Draco. Harry could feel the damp outline of his lips as he nuzzled Harry's shoulder, and gentled his brow with cool fingers. Harry kept a tight hold of one of Draco's hands. They stayed like that for a long time.  
  
"Draco, I—" Harry turned in the circle of Draco's arms, but he was already kneeling up and away.  
  
"Don't," he said, putting a finger to his lips. "And we shall never speak of this again, agreed?"  
  
"All right." Harry was rolling his eyes, a new lightness of spirit pervading him.  
  
On Monday he went back to work.  
  
+++  
  
Harry was carefully sealing envelopes when Draco returned from upstairs, mouth prissy. "You!" he said, pointing and sitting down at the same time. It was a minor miracle that he didn't miss his chair.  
  
"Me," returned Harry.  
  
He didn't falter in his task. He'd decided to send letters to every Ministry employee regarding the proper completion of expense claims. It was easy enough to call up the database (by hacking into Ron's files), and he wrote the letters on his personal headed parchment, so people would take notice.  
  
"You haven't told Weasley where you are!"  
  
"Which Weasley is that? Ron Weasley, my best friend; Hermione Weasley, his wife; or Ginny Weasley, my ex-wife?"  
  
"She still styles herself Potter," said Draco. "I keep telling you this thing with Forte is a flash in the pan. But Hermione, Harry. You haven't told her where you are. She's mad with worry—mad enough to accost _me_ in the corridor and demand information on your whereabouts."  
  
"You didn't give her any, did you?" Harry dropped his current envelope.  
  
"Catch me," said Draco scornfully. "But she's a slightly intelligent witch, by all accounts, and when she's exhausted all her other avenues of inquiry she will come back to me. Simple process of elimination."  
  
"I don't want to talk to her."  
  
"That much," said Draco, "is obvious. But why?"  
  
"What could she say? How could she possibly understand?"  
  
"People get divorced a _lot_. I did. It's not quite the earth-shattering event you imagine. Trust you to turn all this into a three-ring circus."  
  
"My wife's having a baby with another man!" said Harry sharply.  
  
"Yes, and I think there are a few natives in the Amazon who don't know that by now. Is this going to be the rest of your life? Living in my flat, doing my job, never seeing your kids?"  
  
"I visit Lily's playschool every week," Harry objected, "and the boys are at Hogwarts—they wouldn't see me anyway. If you're hinting that I should move out, then bloody well say it. Don't pussy-foot around the issue."  
  
"Move out or pay rent," said Draco. "My place is tiny, in case you haven't noticed, and I can use all the cash I can get."  
  
It took only a moment's struggle before Harry said, "All right. How much do you want?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Rent. How much? And don't think you can use extortion just 'cause I'm filthy rich."  
  
"No, wait. You'll pay me money to live with me?" Draco jumped up and felt Harry's forehead. "You don't _feel_ feverish."  
  
Harry knocked his hand away. "Did you happen to pass the Auror department in your travels?"  
  
"Yes," said Draco. "Sampson Pye has covered your desk with hundreds of little balls—why is that?"  
  
"I'll go to Gringotts in my lunch break." Harry sealed his last envelope. "Two hundred a month okay?"  
  
"Sickles?"  
  
"Galleons."  
  
"You're mad."  
  
"Yes, so you and Rita Skeeter constantly aver. But when a madman is giving you gold, I think the term changes to 'pleasantly eccentric'."  
  
"Mad," said Draco, firmly.  
  
Harry smiled and went back to plotting reform.  
  
+++  
  
Harry came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. As he passed by the hall mirror, he speculatively jiggled his belly.  
  
"Middle-aged spread," said Draco, helpfully, from the couch. He was reading _Which Robe?_ with sarcastic delight. "Too much beer and curry, according to this venerable tome."  
  
"What causes fat arses like yours, then?"  
  
"I'll have you know I have a _bubble-butt_ ," said Draco with dignity. Harry snickered.  
  
"What the hell is that?"  
  
"Perfectly spherical buns, I believe." Draco flipped a page. "Astoria used it on me once. Apparently it's supposed to be a flattering comment."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"It resulted in Hyp, so I'd say yes."  
  
"Is my stomach really that bad? Be honest." Harry stood in profile and tried to suck in his belly. His chest inflated to match it, but there was no discernable difference in his abdominal region.  
  
"Yeah, pretty bad." Draco rolled his eyes. "But if it's any consolation, you have a bubble-butt too."  
  
"I'm going on a diet tomorrow."  
  
"Basil Forte weighs about fifteen stone," said Draco. "You're winning, don't worry about it."  
  
At that point the doorbell rang. "If it's those Mormons again, tell them I'll believe in Jesus when he comes down from Heaven with a wand in one hand and a bag of Galleons in another," said Draco.  
  
Harry opened the door to Ginny. "Shit."  
  
"Who is—ah." Draco folded up _Which Robe?_ "I'll make myself scarce. But try not to yell too loud—the walls are paper thin."  
  
Harry almost wanted to tell him to stay. But that was silly. Ginny looked wretched. She was here to beg for a reconciliation, like Draco had prophesied. Draco had no place in that.  
  
"May I come in?" Hesitancy was written in every new line of Ginny's face.  
  
"Of course." Harry whipped the toothbrush out of his mouth and opened the door wider.  
  
"Thanks." Ginny walked—no, waddled—to the sofa. "My legs are swelling up like balloons. Standing for more than five minutes at a time is torture."  
  
"I remember that."  
  
"She's due in a week."  
  
"Is Basil disappointed you won't be providing him with a son and heir?"  
  
"Basil is over the moon, like you were with Lily."  
  
"Any names yet? I hope there's a few beginning with A, to match the scarlet letter she'll be wearing."  
  
"I had thought you'd be reasonable by now," said Ginny, frowning.  
  
"So we could all hold hands and play happy families? Fat chance."  
  
"This is the way things are now," said Ginny. "You might as well get used to it."  
  
Surprising himself, Harry said, "I am used to it. That doesn't mean I have to like it."  
  
Ginny sighed and patted her belly. Harry looked at her objectively. She'd gained weight with this pregnancy—quite a lot of it. Her hair was frizzy, her face bereft of a single scrap of makeup. Her ankles were thick and covered in scaly dry skin. She'd stuffed her feet into ugly sandals. They were probably the only thing that fit.  
  
Harry couldn't remember her being this ugly before. Possibly he'd been so delighted at the ends that the means didn't bother him. Or maybe he'd been too in love to notice.  
  
He was noticing now.  
  
"I want to ask you something," said Ginny. "Maybe it's too soon, but—well, the baby will be along very soon. The kids'll have to meet their new sister, even if you don't."  
  
"Yes, and?"  
  
"I was hoping you'd bring them to meet her," said Ginny. "In an ideal world, of course, you'd meet Basil beforehand. I'd hate to think you'd be so overcome with rage that you'd punch him out while I was in labour."  
  
"That's one good thing, I suppose," said Harry. "You squeezed my hand black and blue the last three times. I haven't got proper feeling back in my little finger since Lily was born. I guess that's Basil's job now."  
  
"What, holding my hand or getting maimed?"  
  
"Both, I suppose," said Harry. He realised he was smiling at his wife for the first time in four months. Actually; more than that. They hadn't smiled much at each other for a long, long time before that.  
  
"Are we good now, Harry?" Ginny leaned forward, as if she wanted to take his hand but didn't quite dare. Harry didn't help her, but he didn't freeze her out either.  
  
"We're okay, I think," he said. "Sometimes, that's all you get."  
  
+++  
  
In the end, Harry was present for the entire birth. So were Draco and Basil; Albus Severus and James with Drusilla, who'd Portkeyed them down; and Lily and Mrs Chugworthy, who refused to believe that Draco had Harry's permission to take Lily out of day school.  
  
At the time Draco had been calmly filing, barefoot and in jeans. Harry had discovered this was his wont on the days when he had no contact with other parts of the Ministry, which was most of the time.  
  
Harry was dividing his concentration between the daisy tattoo on Draco's ankle and drawing up a schema for the redistribution of Ministry funds. He'd conducted a survey into the use of Face-Floos by the Auror Department the week before. It had yielded some interesting results regarding deployment percentages. It was amazing what you could achieve with some headed paper, provided your name was Harry Potter.  
  
Basil had burst into the office like a short fat hurricane, with far more ease than Harry's first attempt at it. This was mainly because Harry had appropriated an underling from Hermione's secretarial staff and set her to filing the backlog. Harry occasionally wandered into the labyrinthine filing room and brought her tea.  
  
"It's coming, it's coming!" gasped Basil. "What shall I do?"  
  
"Do you need a sword?" asked Harry.  
  
"What?" Basil was so flustered it was doubtful anything penetrated the confusion, but Draco was nothing if not pugnacious.  
  
"Heroes," he muttered. "Don't listen to Harry. Do you need a _car_?"  
  
Basil did. Draco, who had never relinquished the car keys after the night Ginny left, drove. In petty revenge Harry sent Draco to fetch his children, while Harry kept himself busy with the monumental task of preventing Basil from having an aneurysm.  
  
Their first meeting, two days before, had passed off without incident. Basil was witty, Harry could tell, even if his jokes went over Harry's head most of the time. Ginny certainly laughed a lot.  
  
Basil was greatly altered now.  
  
"Most women don't die in childbirth," Harry felt obliged to point out. It was the wrong thing to say.  
  
"She might _die_?" Basil half-screamed. A Healer sent Harry a dirty look.  
  
It was a relief when the kids showed up, even if Lily immediately called Basil 'my New Basil Daddy.'  
  
"If we ever needed proof that she swam in your gene pool," observed Draco, "that was it."  
  
It was a long night. Basil followed Ginny's trolley into the birthing suite, looking like death warmed over. The rest of them spread out across the waiting area.  
  
"There's no such thing as a free shag, is there?" said Draco, half an hour later.  
  
"Harry, what's a shag?" asked Lily.  
  
"A type of carpet," said Harry. Draco pulled a face. "Well, it _is_."  
  
"I don't know what kinds of carpet you keep company with," said Draco. "And quite frankly, I don't want to."  
  
Mrs Chugworthy made her departure at about that point.  
  
Drusilla stayed on, hoping to see 'the bundle of joy.' As Draco whispered to Harry, 'I can't believe she actually _said_ that.' Verbal crimes aside, Drusilla turned out to be invaluable in keeping the children entertained, with endless games of I-Spy and deep pockets full of all sorts of goodies. Meanwhile, Draco and Harry sat—and lounged, and slumped—in the uncomfortable chairs outside the ward.  
  
"Nice woman," yawned Draco, as Drusilla hurried off to find Lily her seventh green tea.  
  
"Ginny?" Harry was practically comatose at this stage.  
  
"If you say so," said Draco. "I actually meant Drusilla."  
  
"Funny thing," said Harry. "Always thought Nev would stay single. Thirty-five years of never finding that one soulmate, you'd give up. I'd give up."  
  
"Yes, it's a good thing you found your soulmate at sixteen," drawled Draco.  
  
"Nah. I don't believe in soulmates. Pretty bad thing if I did, considering. No, I reckon there's just people. If you're lucky, you get along well enough, and that's it. Okay is all you get."  
  
"Okay's not bad," said Draco. "Compared to terrible, or depressing, or frightening. And you do realise you keep stealing my line?"  
  
"You'll get over it," said Harry. "You forgave me nearly tearing your chest open."  
  
"You forgave me for trying to kill Dumbledore."  
  
"I did, didn't I?" Harry tried to remember when that had come about—before he'd seen Draco's ankle tattoo, or after?  
  
"So we're quits on that. Stealing my lines is quite another matter."  
  
Constance Pearl Weasley-Forte was born at three o'clock in the morning. Harry was the only one awake to greet her. He had to move Draco's head from his shoulder to follow Basil into the birthing suite.  
  
"I've always loved the name Constance," said Ginny, cradling the tiny, surprised-looking infant.  
  
"Hey there, Conny," said Harry. He tickled the baby's chin.  
  
"I suppose I deserve that," said Ginny, "for Bussy."  
  
Harry cleared his throat. It struck him that, while Ginny had been grossly unfair to him, he hadn't been all that fair to her either.  
  
"Say hello to your uncle Harry—Constance," he said. He gravely shook her little hand. Ginny laughed and started to cry. Harry had done the very same thing to Lily, Albus Severus and James.  
  
"I think you should go now," said Basil, gently pushing him out. Harry was glad to go; glad and sorry. It should have been him in there. But it wasn't. And that was okay.  
  
He walked slowly to the waiting area to wake Draco and Drusilla. The kids could hang around to meet Constance, but it was time to take Draco home.  
  
+++  
  
Draco looked up from Scorpius' latest letter. Despite Draco's essential Draconess, he couldn't conceal his delight in his son's better-late-than-never mode of correspondence.  
  
"Scorp mentions _James_ a lot," he said, as if this were worthy of suspicion.  
  
"I think they're friends now," said Harry. He sat back on his heels. "What do you think?"  
  
"Do not try and distract me with greenery," said Draco. "I am not to be foiled. Did you put your son up to making friends with my son?"  
  
"Now you're thinking like a Slytherin," said Harry. "James figured out that Scorp was the original recipient of the raspberry flummeries. They probably bonded over it. It'll blow over once James gets the recipe out of him."  
  
"That sounds like something Bussy would do," said Draco.  
  
"Al—Bussy is intelligent before he's noble," said Harry, "and Scorp would very likely rip his head off if he tried."  
  
"James' neck appears ripely unsevered," observed Draco.  
  
"You see? _Gryffindor_."  
  
"Who made this up in the first place?" complained Draco. "I bet Godric was a sneaky old fart and Salazar was a bumbling fool. Rowena's hobby was making pies and Helga's was—"  
  
"Writing potions textbooks?" suggested Harry.  
  
"I was going to say 'researching the uses of dragon's blood,' _actually_."  
  
"I don't think it matters. They had a good idea: put kids with other kids who are like them. All the Founders were probably bloodthirsty medieval maniacs. But keeping the bookworms away from the loud, outspoken braggarts is nice for the bookworms."  
  
"And the braggarts?"  
  
"Aren't undermined by the skeezy gits, or annoyed by the do-gooders."  
  
"For shame," said Draco. "I thought you were the world's number one do-gooder."  
  
"I am," said Harry. "I put up with you, don't I?"  
  
"Oh, is that what you're doing? I thought you were just squatting."  
  
"Shut up and look. I made you a garden."  
  
"A rose garden?" queried Draco sardonically, but he put down Scorpius' letter.  
  
There was a little fire escape under Draco's kitchenette window. Harry had made it bloom. Nearly every flower he could think of was represented, except roses. Never roses.  
  
"It's ... beautiful." Draco paused. "Does that count as a compliment?"  
  
"Would it hurt if it did?"  
  
"Oh, excruciatingly."  
  
"Shut up," said Harry, again. "And it's your turn to cook."  
  
+++  
  
It all came about rather abruptly, like continental plates crashing.  
  
"We should get a bigger place," Harry said, one mellow May evening. "The kids'll need somewhere to stay."  
  
Draco turned his head sharply. They were sitting on the fire escape, surrounded by fragrant spikes of narcissus, which didn't leave him a lot of room for sudden gestures. Harry only just avoided head trauma.  
  
"The kids?" Draco repeated, as if he'd never been involved in the process of reproduction.  
  
"Yeah—Lily, Bussy, James, Scorp, Hyp? I know your two stay with Astoria a lot, but you're entitled to have them some of the time. Ginny and I are trading off weeks. I'm sure they'll prefer it here to a place with a squalling infant, but only if there's somewhere to sleep."  
  
"You're never going to leave, are you?"  
  
Harry frowned. "I hoped we could get a bigger place later on. After all, this flat is a fleapit."  
  
"But, no." Draco struggled for words. "This isn't just a temporary measure. You think you're going to stay here, with me, always."  
  
"It's a bit weird, all right," agreed Harry. "But it's been a very long time since I wanted to kill you. In fact, I quite like you now. But don't let it go to your head."  
  
Draco didn't come back with a killer rejoinder. He just sat there, staring at Harry with big glassy eyes.  
  
"What's wrong? Fine, I'll admit it. I like you a lot. I might even love you a little—"  
  
"Stop." Draco grabbed his wrist, fingernails piercing the skin. "What are you saying?"  
  
Words had never been Harry's strong suit. He was a man of action.  
  
Draco jumped when Harry kissed him, and protested. The sounds were muffled and short-lived. It turned out that Draco Malfoy was easy. All it took was a little tongue and Harry's hand on the back of his neck, and he melted like ice on a warm day.  
  
He tasted really good, too. Harry felt a little dizzy. It had been so long since he'd kissed, and been kissed, with intent. He thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't actually forgotten how. It was like riding a bike.  
  
He pressed Draco back against the wall, feeling crushed petals under his knees. With a wet gasp Draco curved up against him, hands clutching, drawing him closer. Not so much like a bike then. More like something unfamiliar, something exciting, something wonderfully new.  
  
(The last time Harry had seen Hermione, she'd asked him how he was.  
  
"Okay," he said, "I'm okay.")  
  
Hot hands slipped under his t-shirt, caressing the soft skin. With some effort, Harry lay Draco down under him. His face was framed by swaying lilies; laughing and a little scared. Harry licked at his mouth, revelling in the slow hot slide of tongues.  
  
"I've never done this before," gasped Draco.  
  
"Don't worry, I did a bit. You know, before I got married," said Harry. "I watched some porn, too. I think I know what goes where."  
  
"I don't know what to be more insulted by," said Draco. "That you watched porn to research seducing me, or that you _planned to seduce me_."  
  
"Why, what would a Slytherin have done?"  
  
"This," said Draco, and stuck his hand down Harry's pants.  
  
Harry gasped in shock and moaned in pleasure. He rubbed against Draco even as his hand moved, giving himself over to the bliss of the moment. An embarrassingly short time later, he collapsed on Draco's chest.  
  
"You lied," he accused him. "You have done this before."  
  
"Yes. On _myself_ , you twit."  
  
"Oh. Oh." Harry brushed his hand down Draco's side, watching as he shivered. "That's going to come in handy."  
  
They only left the fire escape when the neighbours began to complain.  
  
+++  
  
Harry stepped around the boxes of Face-Floos and reflected that it was fortunate maintenance had retained the packaging. The company wasn't best pleased to have the order returned outside the warranty, but there were a lot of uses to being Harry Potter. Harry was discovering more and more every day. Sampson Pye had been the only one to complain about the loss, and even he'd stopped once he got an autographed stress ball.  
  
"Finished the Department of Mysteries audit?" asked Draco.  
  
"Yup," said Harry. "Three more Departments to go, then we can start implementing the reforms I reported."  
  
"You can, you mean," said Draco. "Someone has to do the filing."  
  
"Speaking of which, you need a pay rise. How's fifty thousand Galleons sound?"  
  
"Lovely, but aren't we trying to, oh, _curtail_ the overspending?"  
  
"This isn't overspending. Once the reforms are put through the Wizengamot, we'll be saving so much the goblins will curse my name."  
  
"I adore the way you think you can run the world," said Draco.  
  
"I know you adore me," said Harry. "And it helps to know where Hermione hides the whips."  
  
By this time he was standing with Draco's knees between his legs. Harry bent down to catch Draco's lips in a quick, filthy kiss. Draco's hand unerringly found the gap in his robes and slid through, sending tingles down Harry's spine. Draco was barefoot again. He insisted that Harry was unhealthily fixated on his feet, but Harry noticed that Draco rarely wore shoes now when he didn't have to.  
  
When they were through, Draco looked considerably more rumpled. His wickedly curving wet lips suggested he knew, and liked, the state he'd in which he'd left Harry. They'd agreed not to have sex at work after the little secretary found Draco in Harry's lap, jeans around his ankles and cock sliding into Harry's tight fist, and fled in horror.  
  
On the other hand, it was as good a way as any to come out.  
  
Harry still kind of missed the days when he could whisper to Draco, "Bend over the desk—I want to fuck you now." Draco had never once refused, although he'd complained enough about getting the stains out of his blotter. Of course, Harry never got those kinds of thoughts except when Draco sat with his legs spread in that lewd way, apparently 'balancing accounts.' Harry believed that this was called a vicious circle.  
  
It was a pity there was nowhere private for them to go. Only one official in the Ministry was allowed to lock their office door, and Harry wasn't it. Yet.  
  
"You know," said Harry thoughtfully, a finger tracing the bump at the top of Draco's spine, "I looked it up, and most of the Ministers for Magic before 1970 were former Heads or Vice-Heads of Accounts and Boring Paperwork."  
  
"I don't care by what margin you win the popular vote," said Draco, "I am not becoming your trophy wife."  
  
"That's okay," said Harry.  
  
And it really was.  
  
 **The End**


End file.
